PLAYS 

BY 

JACINTO    BENAVENTE 


JACINTO    BENAVENTE 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    SPANISH 
WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 

BY 

JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL 

REPRESENTATIVE     OF     THE     SOCIEDAD     DE    AUTORES    E8PANOLE3     IN     THE    UNITED 
STATES     AND     CANADA 


I       ^AtfT^OlllZEE   Ei>I?iON 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1921 


312  ^ 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERBILL 


Published  May,  1917 


C  o  p  -  ' 

CONTENTS 

PAGB 

INTRODUCTION vii 

His  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND- 1 

THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST 37 

THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD 113 

LA  MALQUERIDA 197 


INTRODUCTION 

i 

JACINTO  BENAVENTE  was  born  at  Madrid,  August  12, 1866^.  { 
He  was  the  son  of  Mariano  Benavente,  a  physician  and  dis- 
tinguished specialist  in  the  diseases  of  children,  who  had 
come  up  to  the  capital  from  Murcia,  that  most  African  and 
somnolent  of  European  cities,  some  years  before.  If  Adam 
should  return  to  this  earth,  says  the  Spaniard,  Murcia  is  the 
spot  he  would  recognize  first,  for  of  all  places  it  has  changed 
the  least.  There  is  in  many  of  the'  most  fascinating  pages  of 
Benavente  the  sense  of  this  semitropical,  parched,  unchang- 
ing landscape,  where,  as  he  himself  has  put  it,  civilization 
has  not  yet  murdered  sleep.  Along  the  upper  reaches  of  the 
River  Segura  lies  many  a  town,  baked  into  the  arid  hillsides 
through  centuries  of  torrid  noons,  from  which  never  a  name 
has  come  forth  into  the  currents  of  European  life. 

As  a  young  man  he  entered  the  University  of  Madrid  and 
there  studied  law,  without,  however,  completing  the  course. 
But  no  routine  study  fixed  his  attention.  Injparticular,  he 
was  avid  of  intercourse  with  persons  of  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions, especially  with  those  whose  lives  were  uncouth  and 
primitive  in  their  surroundings,  and  who  were  simple  and 
childlike  in  nature,  where  the  heart  was  never  very  far  be- 
neath the  surface  and  the  emotions  ingenuous  and  strong. 
For  a  while  he  travelled  with  a  circus;  it  is  even  said  that  he 
performed  in  the  ring.  Clowns  fascinated  him.  dkll  classes 
of  itinerant  folk  have  been  his  friends  ever  since.  Subse- 
quently he  became  an  actor,  appearing  in  the  company  of 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Maria  Tubau,  where  his  first  part  was  that  of  a  sportsman, 
at  that  period  an  exotic,  incredible,  not  to  say  highly  ridicu- 
lous figure  in  Spain.  Hejhas_always  been  a  peregrin.-.  ;t<l- 
vcnturous  genius,  and  of  the  type  nobody  ever  finds  dull. 
He  has  travelled  extensively  and  is  conversant  with  tin- 
languages  and  literatures  of  western  Europe  and  of  Amer- 
ica, in  which  he  is  familiarly  at  home.  No  vital  subject  is 
alien  to  him.  His  field  is  world-wide,  and  his  sympathies 
are  of  cosmopolitan  range. 

While  still  at  the  University  he  gave  evidence  of  literary 
predilections.  His  first  volume  was  his  "Poems,"  published 
in  1893.  This  was  followed  by  "Plays  of  the  Imagination," 
which  contains  some  of  the  finest 'specimens  of  the  hV 
Spanish  prose,  and  Vilanos,  or  "Thistledown,"  preparing  the 
way  for  his  "Figurines"  and  "The  Ladies'  Letter  Writer," 
masterpieces  in  a  cameo-like  perfection  of  workmanship  and 
fluent  satiric  style  respectively.  These  early  volumes  are  at 
once  the  model  rhetoric  and  the  inspiration  of  the  writers  of 
the  younger  generation,  who  have  fashioned  a  new  literature 
and  moulded  into  a  finer  instrument  the  stately  Castilian 
tongue. 

With  the  exception  of  Cervantes  and  of  certain  other 
robust  spirits,  more  or  less  associated  with  the  vein  of  the 
romances  of  roguery,  Spanish  literature,  since  the  day  of 
Lope  de  Vega  and  the  triumph  of  the  romantic  theatre,  has 
been  prone  to  generalizations  and  to  broad  emotions.  It  has 
been  essentially  a  fabric  of  imagination  and  eloquence.  It 
was  not  only  brilliant,  but  splendid,  with  its  heroic  sentiment 
and  its  purple  patches  of  diction,  yet  nevertheless  compact 
of  convention  and  conclusions  a  priori,  exemplified  in  the 
traditional  honor^of  the  dramas  of  Calderpn,  the  consecrated 
types  of  Zorilla,  the  poisoned  rings  and  unrevealable  secrets 
of  the  elder  Echegaray.  But  with  the  coming  of  the  gen- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

eration  of  1898  a  great  change  took  place  in  the  spirit  of  I 
Spanish  art.  The  forces  of  the  New  World  penetrated  the 
life  of  the  Old.  The  loss  of  the  colonies  awakened  the  nation 
to  a  realization  of  the  fact  that  it  had  been  walking  in  a 
political  and  literary  dream.  Its  traditions  had  become 
anachronisms  of  which  it  must  rid  itself  before  it  could 
assume  a  position  among  the  progressive  peoples.  Spanish 
letters  to-day,  in  the  hands  of  contemporary  writers,  such  as  ; 
Martinez  Sierra,  Pio  Baroja,  Valle-Inclan,  Juan  Ramon 
Jimenez,  Antonio  and  Manuel  Machado,  Azorin — a  company 
from  which  the  name  of  Ruben  Dario  must  not  be  disasso-  / 
ciated — is  a  generalization  from  experience,  not  an  imitation  / 
of  books.  It  is  founded  upon  observation  and  insists  upon 
detail,  which  must  precede  generalization,  no  matter  how 
plausible.  The  style  becomes  supple,  delicate,  adapted  to 
reflect  the  facets  as  well  as  the  general  form  of  the  subject. 
Through  the  impetus  of  the  new  movement,  Spanish  criticism 
also  took  on  new  life,  and  cut  its  way  through  both  the  old 
and  new  literatures,  to  which  the  test  of  practical  reason 
was  relentlessly  applied.  So  sweeping  a  revolution  would 
not  have  been  possible  in  any  other  country  in  so  brief  a 
time,  but  the  intellectual  life  of  Spain  is  centred  at  Madrid, 
and  in  a  small  circle  at  Madrid,  the  prestige  of  whose  names 
is  unquestioned  wherever  the  Spanish  language  is  spoken. 
The  new  era  had  been  delayed  longer  than  elsewhere,  but 
nowhere  had  the  triumph  of  its  principles  proved  so  radical 
or  so  absolute. 

Although  in  no  sense  its  promoter,  Benavente  has  been  the 
most  stimulating  and  compelling  figure  in  this  latter-day 
renaissance.  By  a  coincidence,  perhaps,  his  evolution  has 
kept  pace  strictly  with  the  successive  phases  of  its  develop- 
ment. His  first  play,  "Thy  Brother's  House,"  El  nido  ajeno, 
was  acted  in  1894,  and  failed  to  attract  unusual  attention. 


x  INTRODUCTION 

It  was  not  an  unusual  play.  On  the  performance  of  his 
second  work,  Genie  conocida,  "In  Society,"  at  the  Teatro  de"^ 
la  Comedia,  Madrid,  in  1896,  it  was  at  once  recognized  that  f 
an  extraordinary  talent  had  appeared.  Here  was  a  comedy 
which  had  no  affinity  with  anything  hitherto  seen  south  of 
the  Pyrenees,  suggesting  rather  the  technique  of  Lavedan  or 
the  Countess  Martel  than  that  of  native  writers,  such  as 
the  Padre  Coloma,  whose  sensationally  popular  sketches  of 
Madrid  life,  Pequeneces,  had  been  the  nearest  approxima- 
tion known  until  that  time  in  the  Spanish  capital.  The 
actors  viewed  the  new  play  with  suspicion  during  the  re- 
hearsals, and  as  time  went  on,  even  with  utter  disgust.  At 
last  the  author  himself  lost  faith.  Yet  the  result  confounded 
them  completely.  Its  triumph  on  representation  was  in- 
stantaneous and  final. 

Gente  conocida  was  followed  by  a  brilliant  succession  of 
satirical  comedies,  dealing  with  Madrid  society  or  with  the 
fortunes  of  political  adventurers  from  the  capital  condemned 
for  a  while  to  service  in  the  provinces.  "The  Banquet  of 
Wild  Beasts"  and  Lo  cursi  are  among  the  most  typical  of 
these  plays,  in  which  metropolitan  routine  is  depicted  as 
systematic  preoccupation  with  everything  in  life  which  is 
not  worth  while.  An  even  more  mordant  satire  is  "The 
Governor's  Wife,"  apparently  respecting  nothing,  much  less 
virtue — or  is  it  merely  the  eternal  fool?  For  the  greater 
part,  the  plays  of  this  period  were  written  for  that  most 
spirited  of  comediennes,  Rosario  Pino,  and  the  association  of 
these  two  remarkable  talents,  romping  and  slashing  and 
making  holiday  together  through  every  convention  of  the 
dull,  the  selfish,  the  idle,  the  commonplace,  remains  in  the 
popular  mind  as  the  brightest  and  most  dazzling  feature  of 
the  modern  Spanish  stage. 

At  the  beginning  of  1905  Benavente  had  been  active  in  the 


•  INTRODUCTION  xi 

theatre  for  eleven  years.  He  had  written  over  thirty  plays. 
A  decade  of  varied  production  had  brought  the  Spanish- 
speaking  peoples  to  feel,  as  by  common  consent,  that  here 
was  an  achievement  without  precedent  in  the  modern  annals 
of  one  of  the  great  dramas  of  the  world.  It  might  well  have 
been  accounted  a  life-work.  A  shorter  period  has  almost 
invariably  witnessed  the  rise  and  decline  of  the  favorite 
Parisian  playwrights.  Yet  Benavente  did  not  purpose  to 
decline.  Instead,  a  subtle  change  takes  place  in  his  style, 
such  as  had  come  over  that  of  Cervantes  between  the  first 
and  second  parts  of  Don  Quixote.  He  renews  himself.  His 
phrase  becomes  transparent,  at  the  same  time  richer  and; 
more  simple,  more  suggestive.  It  pervades  the  whole  work 
with  the  effortless  clarity  of  the  last  manner  of  Velazquez, 
which  is  as  if  it  had  never  met  with  an  obstacle  in  the  world. 
Such  a  style  is  the  synthesis  of  the  experience  of  a  great 
writer,  and  comes  only  to  the  maturity  of  a  great  artist.  It 
has  been  said  that  every  idea  of  Benavente's  is  an  idea  and' 
a  half.  We  see  not  only  the  thought,  but  its  reverse  and  its 
ramifications,  its  genesis,  as  well  as  the  nature  by  which  it 
was  conceived,  against  the  background  of  the  common 
mind. 

"I  do  not  make  my  plays  for  the  public,"  he  writes;  "I 
make  the  public  for  my  plays."  This  is  true  not  only  in  the 
matter  of  fundamental  conception  and  arrangement,  but 
there  is  an  entire  absence  of  the  lesser  tricks  and  artifices  of 
the  stage.  Indeed,  few  writers  of  the  first  reputation  have 
been  such  practical  men  of  the  theatre.  Not  only  was  he  an~^ 
actor  in  the  beginning,  but  he  has  recently  impersonated 
Don  Juan  Tenorio  in  Zorilla's  play  of  that  name,  the  war- 
horse  of  all  great  Spanish  actors.  He  created  the  role  of 
Pepe  in  his  own  Sin  querer,  "In  Perfect  Innocence,"  and  only 
a  year  ago  he  appeared  at  the  Teatro  Lara  and  assumed  the 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

leading  part  in  his  latest  drama,  La  ciudad  alegre  y  conjiada, 
preventing  thereby  the  closing  of  the  house  when  the  actor 
Thuillier  was  taken  ill  before  one  of  the  earlier  performances. 
Benavente  is  in  no  sense  a  professional  actor — far  from  it; 
these  things  have  been  the  diversions  of  a  restless  and  in- 
quiring mind.  He  assisted  in  the  formation  of  the  Art 
Theatre,  which  was  inaugurated  by  a  series  of  matinees  at 
the  Lara,  and  played  in  his  comedy,  "A  Long  Farewell,"  at 
the  opening  matinee.  His  "House  of  Good  Fortune"  was 
staged  by  the  Teatre  Intim  at  Barcelona,  and  in  1911  he 
associated  himself  with  the  actor  Porredon  in  the  founda- 
tion of  a  Children's  Theatre,  after  the  manner  of  the  Educa- 
tional Alliance  of  New  York,  contributing,  among  other 
things,  "The  Prince  Who  Learned  Everything  out  of  Books," 
an  allegorical  fairy-tale  of  great  delicacy.  Unfortunately  this 
venture  proved  short-lived.  His  greatest  successes  have 
uniformly  been  attained  in  the  established  houses,  the 
Comedia,  the  Lara,  the  Espanol,  and,  of  Tattf  years,  the 
Princesa,  to  the  distinction  of  which,  under  the  direction  of 
Maria  Guerrero  and  Fernando  Diaz  de  Mendoza,  he  has  con- 
tributed in  large  measure.  Only  a  master  of  the  theatre 
could  be  so  independent  of  its  parade;  rather  he  has  espoused 
every  reform  by  which  the  stage  might  be  broadened  or 
made  more  sincere.  The  theatre  has  been  his  workshop, 
not  his  life,  and  after  each  period  of  productivity  he  has 
withdrawn  from  public  view,  perhaps  to  his  country  home 
near  Toledo,  perhaps  to  travel,  to  lecture  or  to  write,  return- 
ing again  with  a  fresh  orientation  and  a  keener  sense  of  living 
values.  "Ah!"  he  exclaims  in  the  second  volume  of  his 
"Table  Talk,"  "let  us  have  done  with  all  counterfeits,  of 
which  the  most  common  in  the  theatre  are  these:  the  con- 
fusion of  the  vapid  with  the  literary,  of  the  dull  with  the 
profound,  of  the  extravagant  with  the  new,  the  banal  with 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

s 

the  poetic,   the  gross  with  the  courageous  and  bold.     All 
these  equivocations  invariably  end  in  one  other — an  empty 
house,  which  is  explained  by  saying  that  the  play  failed  be- 
cause it  was  art  and  the  public  was  unable  to  appreciate  art. 
But  the  true  art  of  the  theatre  is  to  do  good  business,  and  to  ] 
do  good  business  you  must  do  good  art.     Shakespeare  and  I 
Moliere  were  both  managers,  and  as  managers  both  made  a  I 
great  deal  of  money." 

No  dramatist  is  less  theatrical,  yet  none  has  written-  more 
theatrical  plays.  Especially  during  his  earlier  years,  he 
composed  a  large  number  of  occasional  pieces  for  the  benefits 
of  friends,  or  otherwise  for  their  accommodation,  or  to  tide 
friendly  stages  over  emergencies.  There  are  many  of  these 
— one-act  plays,  musical  plays,  farces  in  one,  two,  and  three 
acts.  They  are  the  fruit  of  his  lighter  moments,  and  are 
theatrical  not  in  the  usual  acceptation  which  implies  a  dis- 
tortion of  the  theme  through  resort  to  artifice,  but  in  the 
very  nature  and  conduct  of  their  action,  which  is  of  the 
theatre,  conceived  for  the  purposes  of  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment, rather  than  out  of  the  sphere  of  actuality  and  ex- 
perience. On  the  other  hand,  as  in  compensation,  Bena-. 
vente  has  taken  an  unusual  interest  in  the  best  in  foreign 
drama,  and  has  made  some  notable  translations  from  the 
English,  Catalan,  and  French.  An  adaptation  of  Moliere's 
"Don  Juan,"  first  seen  in  1897,  was  his  initial  undertaking 
in  this  field.  His  "King  Lear,"  a  prose  version  of  the 
tragedy,  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  translator's  art, 
while  his  graceful,  flexible  rendering  of  "The  Yellow  Jacket," 
the  fascinating  Chinese  drama  of  George  C.  Hazelton  and 
Benrimo,  is  so  successful  that  it  almost  cries  to  be  turned 
back  into  English  as  an  original  work. 

Nevertheless,  these  productions  are  secondary  in  the  his- 
tory of  his  reputation.  They  have  interested  him  but  mo- 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

mentarily  or  in  some  very  special  connection,  although  they 
exceed  in  bulk  and  importance  the  accomplishment  of  the 
ordinary  playwright.  The  real  dramas  of  Benavente,  in 
which  he  has  expressed  himself,  recorded  his  impressions  of 
life  without  hesitation  or  reserve,  and  made  a  distinctive 
contribution  to  the  theatre,  are  far  more  numerous,  as  well 
as  of  greater  richness  and  variety.  "A  Lover's  Tale,"  an 
improvisation  upon  the  theme  of  Shakespeare's  "Twelfth 
Night,"  is  held  by  fastidious  judges  to  be  one  of  the  finest 
examples  of  modern  Spanish  prose.  It  was  followed  by  other 
works  in  the  same  vein,  and,  after  the  close  of  the  century, 
the  series  of  comedies  written  for  Rosario  Pino  was  capped 
by  "Sacrifice"  and  "The  Victor  Soul,"  both  of  a  more  sober 
nature,  generally  regarded  as  pessimistic  in  tendency  when 
contrasted  with  the  lighter  works  which  had  preceded  them. 
The  two  great  cycloramic  spectacles,  "Saturday  Night"  and 
"The  Fire  Dragon,"  in  which  the  satirical,  emotional,  and 
moral  elements  were  intertwined  so  inextricably  that  the 
public  was  confused  and  held  its  judgment  for  a  time  in 
reserve,  brought  the  first  decade  of  activity  to  an  end. 
Benavente  has  since  tried  his  hand  at  almost  every  genre, 
and  he  has  been  successful  in  them  all — peasant  drama  and 
the  tragedy  of  blood,  so  long  associated  with  Spain  in  the 
minds  of  foreigners,  satires  of  provincial  and  metropolitan 
society,  of  the  aristocracy,  dramas  of  the  middle  class,  court 
comedy  in  the  most  subtle  and  refined  of  forms,  in  which 
by  birth  and  breeding  the  personages  are  all  royal.  He  has 
written  romantic  comedies  and  dramas,  rococo  spectacles, 
imaginative  fairy  plays  of  genuine  poetic  worth.  Only  the 
play  in  verse  has  remained  unattempted,  implying,  as  it 
no  doubt  does,  through  its  diction  a  certain  artificiality  in 
the  very  processes  of  thought.  In  all  these  different  genres 
he  has  moved  with  consummate  ease,  without  the  suggestion 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

of  effort,  until  the  drama  of  character  has  seemed  the  most 
facile  and  casual  of  arts. 


The  four  plays  which  make  up  the  present  volume  have  been 
chosen  from  the  later  works  of  the  author,  in  which  his  style 
has  attained  full  development.  They  are  as  representative, 
perhaps,  as  four  plays  selected  for  the  purpose  of  introduc- 
tion to  an  entirely  new  circle  of  readers  can  be.  They  will 
provide  some  basis  for  an  estimate  not  only  of  the  more  super- 
ficial aspects  of  his  genius,  but  of  his  conceptions  and  methods 
— to  an  extent  of  his  opinions,  as  also  of  the  personality  which 
underlies  them.  It  is  not  difficult  for  one  versed  in  the  theatre 
to  recognize  when  the  voice  of  the  author  speaks  in  his  plays. 

"His  Widow's  Husband,"  performed  at  the  Teatro  Prin- 
cipe Alfonso  in  1908,  is  a  comedy  of  provincial  life,  and  as 
such  was  received  with  a  certain  disfavor  by  the  more  pre- 
cious critics  of  the  capital.  By  the  public  it  was  at  once 
accepted  as  a  thoroughly  characteristic  triumph.  Here  is 
a  play  whose  theatrical  qualities  are  obvious,  dear  to  the 
actor's  heart.  In  structure  a  farce,  it  is  primarily  an  adven- 
ture in  provincial  psychology,  and  condenses  into  effective- 
ness the  provincial  atmosphere— the  town  itself,  its  society, 
its  intellectual  status.  The  characters  seem  to  have  no 
mentality;  their  minds  are  atrophied  and  slow.  We  become 
conscious  of  the  outward  feel  of  things,  of  the  streets  of  the 
city  as  they  appear  to  the  eye;  the  personages  seem  to  be 
present  before  us  in  the  body,  through  which  the  retarded 
action  of  their  thoughts  struggles  to  the  surface  with  effort. 
It  is  astonishing  that  one  of  the  most  spirituelle  of  writers 
should  be  capable  of  conveying  such  a  vivid  sense  of  crass 
reality.  More  closely  considered,  this  Protean  quality  is 
implicit  in  his  method.  Benavcnte  never  describes  char-  i 
acters;  he  has  no  inclination  to  serve  them  as  tailor,  nor 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

does  he  give  their  ages^away.  In  his  plays  there  is  no  <!<•- 
seription  either  of  persons  or  of  locale.  He  does  not  set  his 
scenes — the  settings  are  implied,  and  the  effect  attained  by 
an  acute  perception  of  mental  processes  which  in  themselves 
suggest  the  environment.  Herein  lies  the  secret  of  his  ver- 
satility, in  the  highest  art  of  description,  which  finds  most 
perfect  expression  in  Senora  Ama,  wherein  the  Castilian 
plains  are  painted  in  human  terms,  their  bright,  hard  lights 
and  vast,  treeless  distances  being  projected  from  the  austere 
poverty  of  the  minds  of  the  aldeanos,  or  peasants,  whose 
voices  seem  to  break  upon  the  surrounding  void  and  are 
heard  in  the  great  silences  of  space. 

In  La  Malquerida  the  process  is  carried  even  further  from 
the  point  of  view  of  drama.  The  tragedy  was  written  at  the 
close  of  1913  as  a  tribute  to  Maria  Guerrero,  and  is  the  last, 
as  perhaps  the  most  notable,  of  the  series  of  peasant  dramas 
presented  with  such  distinguished  success  by  the  Compania 
Guerrero-Mendoza.  The  detail  is_of_the  most  meagre.  We 
are  shown  a  small  town,  apparently  ill  lighted  or  not  at  all. 
A  brook,  or  arroyo,  runs  near  by.  Evidently  the  country  is 
a  rolling  one.  There  are  fields,  a  grove,  a  mill  in  the  river 
bottom,  a  long  road  with  a  crucifix  beside  it,  and  mountains 
in  the  distance — "those  mountains" — to  which  no  adjective 
is  ever  applied.  On  the  mountains  there  are  brambles, 
thickets,  and  rocks.  This  is  all.  The  drama  is  an  emotional 
;one  in  which  the  landscape  and  action  are  exteriorized  from 
the  realm  of  character  and  conscience,  and  partake  of  its 
nature,  vague  and  blurred  of  outline,  seemingly  painted  in 
broad  but  ill-defined  strokes,  which  harmonize  with  a  per- 
vading sense  of  doubt  and  uncertainty,  bewilderment  of 
conscience  and  impending  doom.  The  subject  is  the  strug- 
gle of  the  individual  conscience  against  the  conscience  of  the 
mass,  which  is  embodied  in  the  talk  of  the  town,  almost  the 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

identical  theme  of  Jose  Echegaray's  "Great  Galeoto,"  but 
now  developed  in  the  manner  of  a  peasant  drama  by  Guimera. 
It  is  the  sort  of  drama  that  the  Catalan  would  have  written 
could  he  have  written  this  sort  of  drama,  in  spirit  and  exe- 
cution a  creation  entirely  apart  from  its  predecessors.  Once 
before,  Benavente  had  performed  a  similar  sleight-of-hand, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  acquit  him  of  a  certain  malign  plea- 
sure in  the  achievement.  "The  Eyes  of  the  Dead"  is  obvi- 
ously just  such  a  tragedy  of  mystery  as  those  to  the  compo- 
sition of  which  Echegaray  had  devoted  a  lifetime.  Having 
proved  to  the  actors  that  true  drama  cannot  be  written 
around  papers,  letters,  mysterious  rings,  or  any  such  mo- 
mentous hocus-pocus,  and  having  actually  convinced  actors 
of  the  fact,  he  now  turns  about  and  through  a  typical  trans- 
formation writes  precisely  such  a  drama,  demonstrating  that 
the  mysterious  letter  is  a  device  of  the  purest  water,  in  no 
way  incompatible  with  the  possession  of  exacting  taste. 

Contrasting  with  a  farce  which  is  a  comedy  and  an  emo- 
tional drama  which  is  a  tragedy  of  character  in  reverse, 
"The  Evil  Doers  of  Good"  is  a  comedy  of  manners,  accord- 
ing to  the  classification  of  the  schools.  It  is  obviously  a 
satire  of  complacency,  of  those  fruits  of  religion  which  are 
not  things  of  the  spirit,  and  as  such  it  was  received  at  its 
first  performance  at  the  Teatro  Lara,  where  it  gave  glorious 
offense.  The  Lara  is  the  home  of  the  sdbado  bianco,  or 
innocuous  matinee.  No  stage  could  have  been  selected 
where  such  an  offering  would  have  proved  more  unwelcome. 
Many  ladies  prominent  in  Madrid  society  and  active  in 
organized  charity  arose  and  left  the  house.  Yet  "The  Evil 
Doers  of  Good,"  for  all  its  wit,  was  in  fact  directed  neither 
against  piety  nor  organized  beneficence.  Benavente  does 
not  satirize  individuals;  he  puts  his  finger  instead  upon  in- 
herent inconsistencies  which  need  only  to  be  presented  in 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

their  native  contradiction  to  appear  what  they  are.  His  is  a 
civilizing  rather  than  a  destructive  or  reforming  force.  In 
this  comedy,  character  and  environment  react  upon  each 
other  in  the  domain  of  the  will,  and  its  significance  is  to  be 
sought  in  the  story  of  Jesus  and  Nativity,  washed  in  to- 
gether from  the  sea,  which  is  destined  again  to  carry  them 
away.  In  "The  Graveyard  of  Dreams,"  the  same  two  lovers, 
now  called  Cipriano  and  Rosina,  are  driven  apart  forever  by 
a  relentless  poverty  against  which  no  satire  can  avail.  An 
apparent  contradiction;  the  solution  is  different,  although  the 
problem  is  the  same.  In  the  domain  of  experience  every 
problem  is  a  special  problem,  to  !><•  determined  by  the  con- 
dition of  the  individual  and  his  relation  to  his  environment. 
The  suggestion  of  this  conflict  is  always  present  in  Bena- 
vente,  in  terms  of  feeling  and  the  heart.  It  prevents  his 
most  acrid  satire  from  becoming  artificial.  As  his  plays  un- 
fold, slowly,  imperceptibly  it  wells  up  in  them — where,  we 
can  scarcely  say,  nor  how — until  at  last  we  find  ourselves 
afloat  upon  the  drama  of  human  experience,  of  which  the 
author  seems  not  until  then  to  have  been  conscious,  and 
whose  development  he  has  had  no  part  in  determining.  The 
effect  of  some  of  the  plays  is  optimistic,  of  others  pessimistic, 
according  to  the  degree  in  which  the  conditions  of  life  they 
present  are  susceptible  of  domination  or  are  immutably 
cruel. 

In  "The  Bonds  of  Interest,"  presented  at  the  same  theatre 
two  years  later,  this  satire  is  directed  against  the  duality  of 
human  nature  itself.  The  comedy  is  so  deft  and  facile  thai 
it  is  easy  to  pass  its  significance  by.  Every  man  has  within 
him  two  irreconcilable  selves,  the  good  and  the  bad,  the 
generous,  the  sordid  and  base.  We  are  not  now  a  Jekyll 
and  now  a  Hyde,  as  in  Stevenson's  story,  but  the  good  is 
inextricably  mixed  with  the  bad,  which  serves  or  dominates 


INTRODUCTION  xk 

it  as  the  case  may  be.  No  man  is  so  disinterested  that  he  \x 
is  insensible  to  the  practical  implications  of  his  conduct. 
And  with  the  worst  there  always  goes  some  little  of  the  best, 
so  that  no  one  may  be  said  truly  to  know  himself,  nor  what,, 
he  is.  In  the  play,  Leander  typifies  the  untutored  best  in 
man,  which  is  good  intention.  He  is  unsullied  by  a  life  of 
hardship  and  defeat,  of  flight  from  a  heartless  justice,  of 
cheats  and  deceptions  and  lies.  Crispin  is  the  slave,  the 
servant — a  role  which  he  assumes  voluntarily.  All  service 
that  is  worthy  of  the  name  is  in  some  measure  disinterested. 
Those  who  do  the  work  of  life  must  face  the  facts  of  life. 
If  Crispin  does  this,  if  he  does  not  lie  to  himself,  however 
much  he  may  lie  to  others,  he  will  learn  through  observation 
and  be  taught  by  his  own  labor.  In  the  end  he  changes 
places  with  Leander,  the  man  of  good  intentions,  who  drifts 
upon  the  fortunes  of  others,  for  out  of  experience  springs  the 
knowledge  of  the  true  values  of  life,  which  is  redeemed  only 
by  disinterested  love,  which  is  always  service  and  sacrifice. 
With  this  the  farce  ends. 


Spanish  criticism  has  hesitated  to  define  the  personality 
of  Benavente  or  to  attempt  any  final  generalization  of  his 
work.  A  product  of  eighty  plays  in  little  more  than  twenty 
years  might  well  give  the  critic  pause.  But  at  a  distance  of 
three  thousand  miles,  with  the  perspective  of  another  litera- 
ture, another  stage,  it  ought  not  to  be  difficult  to  form  some 
conception  of  this  output  in  its  totality  as  well  as  of  its  sig- 
nificance and  tendencies. 

From  the  days  of  the  Goncourts  and  Henri  Becque  in 
France,  the  modern  movement  has  been  one  of  cults,  of  the 
ardors  of  the  pioneer.  It  is  the  story  of  the  rise  of  the  free 
theatres,  of  new  techniques  passionately  espoused,  of  reform. 
Yet  to  this  writer  art  was  a  career,  not  a  campaign.  Strange 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

to  say,  in  a  land  of  warm,  soft,  southern  sun,  he  has  been 
infected  to  a  less  degree  than  any  of  his  predecessors  with  a 
desire  to  hurry  his  work  upon  the  stage.  His  temper,  per- 
haps, is  more  akin  to  D'Annunzio's  than  to  that  of  any  other 
writer  of  equal  rank,  although  it  is  devoid  of  that  absorption 
in  the  picturesque  for  its  own  sake,  in  himself,  in  the  colorful 
romance  of  the  past  as  a  pageant,  which  is  so  conspicuous  in 
the  Italian.  Adolfo  Bonillu  y  San  .Martin,  the  critic,  has 
considered  the  development  of  his  theatre  from  the  literary 
point  of  view  with  authority,  but  the  most  penetrating  and 
satisfying  analysis  of  his  personality  has  been  made  by 
Gregorio  Martinez  Sierra,  himself  a  dramatist  and  scholar 
of  cosmopolitan  attainments,  intimately  associated  with 
him  professionally  and  as  a  man  of  letters  throughout  a 
period  of  many  years.  The  portrait  which  he  has  drawn  is 
•  both  striking  and  definitive. 

"Benavente  does  not  compose,"  says  Martinez  Sierra,  "he 
creates.  The  impelling  force  in  his  work  comes  wholly  from 
within,  and  proceeds  from  the  inside  out,  as  a  seed  germi- 
nates, or  perhaps  more  properly,  as  a  crystal  takes  form. 
Naturally,  good  seed  which  has  fallen  on  good  ground  pro- 
duces good  fruit,  harmonious  in  development,  luxuriant  in 
bloom.  There  are  in  consequence,  upon  occasion,  amazing 
achievements  of  technique  in  the  total  output  of  this  great 
artist,  but  I  will  take  my  oath  that,  while  writing,  he  has 
never  for  a  single  second  concerned  himself  with  these,  nor 
sought  to  contrive  an  effect  for  a  curtain,  nor  a  situation  in 
the  course  of  an  act.  Is  it  urged,  then,  that  he  has  chanced 
upon  many?  Beyond  all  question.  As  it  is  written:  'But 
seek  ye  first  the  Kingdom  of  God  and  his  righteousness;  and 
all  these  things  shall  be  added  unto  you.' 

"I  should  say  that  the  varied  qualities  which,  when  fused, 
constitute  his  genius,  are  susceptible  of  almost  any  adapta- 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

tion.  What  are  they?  First  of  all,  astounding jclearn ess j)f 
mind.  Few  persons  understand  so  quickly  or  so  well  as 
Jacinto  Benavente.  It  might  be  said  that  he  jumps  from 
the  first  point  to  the  conclusion  without  any  intermediate 
process.  To  talk  with  him  is  the  greatest  possible  rest  to 
the  mind.  He  needs  no  proof.  He  comprehends  at  a 
glance,  without  the  necessity  of  waiting  for  the  completed 
word  to  reach  his  ear.  He  sees  ideas  coming,  and  it  is  the 
same  with  events;  he  sees  persons  as  well.  This  is  why 
nothing  astonishes  him.  If  sometimes  the  course  of  events 
has  been  such  as  to  give  him  pain,  as  must  befall  all  of  us 
who  make  this  journey  through  life,  I  am  confident  that  at 
least  he  has  never  been  surprised.  Hence  his  readiness  at 
repartee,  his  irony;  hence  what  has  been  called  his  'detach- 
ment,' the  oscillations  of  the  moral  sense  backward  and 
forward  through  his  works.  He  understands  everything^. 
and  while  possibly  he  does  not  excuse  it,  he  concedes  it  by 
virtue  of  the  mere  fact  that  it  exists,  a  right  to  existence. 
Of  what  use  to  deny,  since  what  is  must  be?"  /* 

Chronologically  and  spiritually,  Benavente  is  the  last  of 
the  moderns.  Born  a  few  years  later  than  the  writers  whose 
names  have  hitherto  been  most  illustrious  in  the  modern 
theatre,  he  has  been  familiar  with  them  all.  He  has  had  the 
advantage  of  a  perspective  which  has  permitted  him  to  profit 
by  their  labors.  When  he  began  to  write  naturalism  had  al- 
ready had  its  day  and  done  its  work;  thenceforth  its  results 
might  safely  be  assumed.  It  was  no  longer  necessary  to 
set  them  down  in  unending  pages  of  detail.  The  theatric 
situation,  which  Ibsen  had  undertaken  to  rationalize,  had 
already  come  into  disfavor.  Time  was  ripe  for  a  new  syn- 
thesis, for  an  inquiry  into  t^.e  inherent  nature  and  necessity 
of  those  expedients  which  had,  time  out  of  mind,  been  ac- 
cepted as  mandatory  upon  the  stage,  whereby  the  writing 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

of  dramas  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  business  of  purvey- 
ing carefully  elaborated  shocks  and  surprises  to  auditors  who 
had  been  prepared  for  their  reception.  But  of  course  drama 
is  nothing  like  this.  It  is  not  constrained  to  leap  from  situ- 
ation to  situation;  nor  will  it  suffice  to  rationalize  the  the- 
atric; it  must  be  gotten  rid  of  altogether.  In  its  very  con- 
ception it  is  a  blight.  If  a  play  does  not  express  itself  in 
terms  of  interest,  then  it  is  imperfectly  conceived,  or  unin- 
teresting dramatically.  It  is  useless  to  call  in  the  stage 
doctor  or  to  attempt  to  stimulate  vitality  by  a  resort  to 
stage  patent  medicines.  Similarly  by  their  nature  partisan- 
ship and  propaganda  are  alien  to  so  knowing  and  catholic 
a  mind.  Benavente  is  the  most  sophisticate*!  of  writers, 
and  his  characters  and  conceptions  are  introduced  so  un- 
obtrusively into  the  minds  of  his  readers  that  they  seem  al- 
ways to  have  existed  in  them,  and  are  welcomed  as  old  friends. 
To  understand,  it  is  necessary  first  to  feel — we  must  sym- 
pathize— and  it  is  this  feeling  which,  when  rationalized,  is 
productive  of  great  art.  He  has  expounded  his  theory  in  one 
of  his  prefaces.  Great  art  must  not  only  be  original,  it  must 
be  tolerant  and  sincere — qualities  postulated  in  its  breadth 
of  view.  "The  function  of  the  artist  is  to  tranquillize  emo- 
tion through  the  intelligence,  and  it  is  only  in  so  far  as  he 
is  able  to  do  this  that  his  work  becomes  good  art;  his  aim  is 
to  bring  serenity,  not  to  create  a  tempest  in  the  mind.  .  .  . 
Every  artist  in  communicating  emotion,  is  under  obligation 
to  set  down  not  what  he  imagines  may  move  us,  but  what 
has  in  fact  moved  him.  The  true  artist  will  fly  from  literary 
convention  as  infallibly  as  the  true  lover  from  the  'Lovers' 
Letter  Writer,'  which  lies  ready  to  his  aid.  Good  actors 
know  that  the  right  gesture  suggests  the  appropriate  feel- 
<ing.  We  begin  by  imitating  the  letter  and  end  by  imitating 
the  spirit.  In  art,  as  in  love,  woe  to  him  who  reminds  us  of 
another,  instead  of  inducing  us  to  forget!" 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

As  early  as  the  production  of  Gente  conocida  a  positive 
element  had  made  itself  apparent  in  his  comedy,  amusingly 
characterized  by  him  in  a  statement  given  to  the  press  on 
the  morning  after  the  first  performance.  "If  there  is  any 
moral  idea  underlying  the  play,  it  is  this:  that  the  aris- 
tocracy of  brains,  of  politics,  of  skill,  if  it  may  be  so  called, 
laughs  at  and  makes  sport  of  the  aristocracy  of  birth  and 
wealth;  but  it  is  helpless  in  the  presence  of  the  aristocracy 
of  the  will,  the  unaided  woman  who  is  determined,  whose 
conscience  is  active  amid  a  society  in  which  all  other  con-  ,' 
sciences  are  asleep.  ...  I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  had 
no  intention  of  conveying  any  such  meaning.  In  fact,  until  V 
this  moment  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  such  a  signif-  f 
icance  could  be  attached  to  my  work."  This  interpretative 
element  continually  becomes  more  and  more  evident.  A 
satire  primarily  psychological  must  in  the  end  lead  to  some 
sort  of  generalization.  The  moral  factor  is  explicit  in  such 
comedies  as  "The  Evil  Doers  of  Good"  and  "Autumnal 
Roses,"  and  in  the  more  recent  serious  plays,  "The  Grave- 
yard of  Dreams"  and  "His  Proper  Self,"  it  assumes  a 
dominant  place.  However,  these  are  in  no  sense  problem 
plays,  nor  may  they  be  considered  as  expositions  of  themes. 
Always  and  in  whatever  form  the  drama  of  Benavente  is  >. 

drama  of  character,  never  of  character  in  its  superficial 

aspects,  its  eccentricities,  but  in  the  human  motives  which  \ 

•^     a  "  >^ 

underlie  and  determine  its  individual  manifestations,  without    /^ 
which  it  would  be  otherwise  or  cease  to  be.    This  is  the  source  f 
both  of  his  unity  and  his  complexity,  which  partake  of  the   ' 
multifariousness  of  the  modern  world. 

Benavente  is  not  only  an  artist,  he  is  much  more;  he  is  a  i 
master  of  life,  of  those  human  crises  which  arise  amid  the   \    * 
preoccupations  of  a  complex  society,  when  poverty,  passion, 
or  some  other  elemental  force  breaks  for  the  moment  through 
the  dead  tangle  of  convention.     His  drama  is  social,  not  \ 


INTRODUCTION 

anti-social.  It  is  not  a  glorification  of  heroes  and  villains 
and  supermen,  impatient  to  enforce  their  desires,  nor  is  it 
concerned  with  revolt  or  reform,  except  in  a  purely  secondary 
sense.  The  attitude  of  personal  protest  is  in  reality  not 
modern,  but  reactionary — somewhat  naive — an  echo  of  the 
old  fanaticism.  Of  course,  there  is  much  in  society  that  is 
susceptible  of  immediate  reformation.  Courage  and  reso- 
lution can  work  wonders.  But  there  is  much  more  in  the 
world  as  it  exists  about  us  which  is  fixed,  at  least  within 
the  span  of  man's  days,  which  we  must  first  recognize,  then 
submit  to  or  ignore.  The  subject  of  Jacinto  Benavente  is 
the  struggle  of  love  against  poverty,  of  obligation  against 
desire,  of  imputed  virtue  against  the  consciousness  of  sin. 
His  point  of  attack  is  where  the  individual  and  the  social 
problem  join.  Upon  these  frontiers  of  the  social  life — which 
are  also  frontiers  of  the  moral  life — he  is  completely  at  home, 
in  those  fateful  moments  when  society  touches  the  individual 
to  the  quick,  and  he  ceases  to  be  his  conventional  self,  and 
becomes  for  a  brief  space  a  free  agent  to  make  the  decision 
which  sets  in  motion  again  the  wheels  of  the  social  organism 
which  is  to  crush  him  or  to  carry  him  along.  In  its  structure 
and  apparatus,  society  is  the  study  of  the  sociologist  rather 
than  the  preoccupation  of  the  artist,  yet  it  is  always  pres- 
ent in  his  drama  as  a  background,  as  a  silent  partner,  per- 
haps, or  as  a  relentless  opposing  force.  These  are  par  excel- 
lence social  dramas,  in  a  word,  of  man  in  society,  yet  whose 
action  is  conceived  never  for  its  effect  upon  society,  but  al- 
ways in  its  meaning  and  implication  in  the  life  of  man. 

By  a  curious  yet  not  arbitrary  contradiction,  in  his  court 
comedies  he  has  expressed  himself  most  unmistakably.  No 
one  has  excelled  him  in  the  depiction  of  the  elegance  and 
sophistication  of  what  is  still  known  as  royalty,  its  perfect 
breeding  in  the  sphere  to  which  it  extends,  the  shadowy 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

unreality  and  irony  of  it  all,  daily  becoming  more  manifest, 
while  underneath  there  often  lies  an  artless,  childlike  heart, 
masked  by  generations  of  veneer.  The  artificiality  of  the 
surroundings  contrasts  vividly  with  the  simple  directness 
and  humanity  of  the  theme,  and  throws  liis  qualities  into 
the  highest  relief.  Only__an  aristocrat,  says  Benavente,,  can 
be  a  democrat.  Such  a  luxury  is  not  for  the  poor. 


In  the  beautiful  comedy,  "The  School  of  Princesses," 
Prince  Albert  sums  up  his  point  of  view.  "My  philosophy 
is  very  simple — to  accept  my  position  in  life  with  all  its  obli- 
gations, to  realize  that  only  by  fulfilling  them  completely, 
that  is,  of  my  own  free  will,  can  I  be  happy;  that  in  this  way, 
and  this  way  only,  can  we,  in  our  unreal  station,  become  the 
equals  of  other  men  who  have  not  been  born  princes.  You 
must  not  think  that  this  has  cost  me  no  trouble.  The  gov- 
ernment of  oneself  is  a  most  difficult  matter,  but  when  once 
it  is  achieved,  what  splendid  liberty !  The  day  that  each 
of  us  becomes  a  tyrant  over  himself,  that  day  all  men  witt 
become  free,  without  revolutions  and  without  laws." 


HIS    WIDOW'S    HUSBAND 

COMEDY    IN    ONE    ACT 

FIRST  PRESENTED  AT  THE  TEATRO  PRINCIPE  ALFONSO, 
MADRID,  ON  THE  EVENING  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  or 
OCTOBER,  1908 


CHARACTERS 

CAROLINA 

EUDOSIA 

PAQUITA 

FLORENCIO 

CASALONGA 

ZURITA 

VALDIVIESO 

The  scene  is  laid  in  a  provincial  capital 


HIS    WIDOW'S    HUSBAND 

CAROLINA  is  seated  as  ZURITA  enters. 

ZURITA.  My  friend ! 

CAROLINA.  My  good  Zurita,  it  is  so  thoughtful  of  you  to 
come  so  promptly !  I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay  all  your 
kindness. 

ZURITA.  I  am  always  delighted  to  be  of  service  to  a  friend. 

CAROLINA.  I  asked  them  to  look  for  you  everywhere.  Par- 
don the  inconvenience,  but  the  emergency  was  extreme.  I 
am  in  a  terrible  position;  all  the  tact  in  the  world  can  never 
extricate  me  from  one  of  those  embarrassing  predicaments — 
unless  you  assist  me  by  your  advice. 

ZURITA.  Count  upon  my  advice;  count  upon  me  in  any- 
thing. However,  I  cannot  believe  that  you  are  really  in 
an  embarrassing  predicament. 

CAROLINA.  But  I  am,  my  friend;  and  you  are  the  only 
one  who  can  advise  me.  You  are  a  person  of  taste;  your 
articles  and  society  column  are  the  standard  of  good  form 
with  us.  Everybody  accepts  and  respects  your  decisions. 

ZURITA.  Not  invariably,  I  am  sorry  to  say — especially  now 
that  I  have  taken  up  the  suppression  of  the  hips,  which  are 
fatal  to  the  success  of  any  toilette.  Society  was  formerly 
very  select  in  this  city,  but  it  is  no  longer  the  same,  as  you 
no  doubt  have  occasion  to  know.  Too  many  fortunes  have 
been  improvised,  too  many  aristocratic  families  have  de- 
scended in  the  scale.  There  has  been  a  great  change  in  so- 
ciety. The  parvenus  dominate — and  money  is  so  insolent ! 
lVopte~whb  haVe4t-im«gine  that  other  things  can  be  impro- 

3 


4  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

vised— as  education,  for  example,  manners,  good  taste. 
Surely  you  must  realize  that  such  things  cannot  be  impro- 
vised. Distinction  is  a  hothouse  plant.  We  grow  too  few 
gardenias  nowadays — like  you,  my  friend.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  have  an  abundance  of  sow-thistles.  Not  that  I 
am  referring  to  the  Nunez  family.  .  .  .  How  do  you  sup- 
pose those  ladies  enliven  their  Wednesday  evenings?  With 
a  gramophone,  my  friend,  with  a  gramophone — just  like 
any  vulgar  cafe;  although  I  must  confess  that  it  is  an  im- 
provement upon  the  days  when  the  youngest  sang,  the 
middle  one  recited,  and  all  played  together.  Nevertheless 
it  is  horrible.  You  can  imagine  my  distress. 

CAROLINA.  You  know,  of  course,  that  I  never  take  part 
in  then*  Wednesdays.  I  never  call  unless  I  am  sure  they 
are  not  at  home. 

ZURITA.  But  that  is  no  longer  a  protection;  they  leave 
the  gramophone.  And  the  maid  invites  you  to  wait  and 
entertain  yourself  with  the  Mochuelo.  What  is  a  man  to 
do?_  It  is  impossible  to  resent  the  records  upon  the  maid. 
'But  we  are  wandering  from  the  subject.  You  excite  my 
curiosity. 

CAROLINA.  You  know  that  to-morrow  is  the  day  of  the 
unveiling  of  the  statue  of  my  husband,  of  my  previous  hus- 
band— 

ZURITA.  A  fitting  honor  to  the  memory  of  that  great,  that 
illustrious  man.  This  province  owes  him  much,  and  so  does 
all  Spain.  We  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of.  calling  our- 
selves his  friends,  should  be  delighted  to  see  justice  done 
to  his  deserts  at  last,  here  where  political  jealousies  and 
intrigue  have  always  belittled  the  achievements  of  our 
eminent  men.  But  Don  Patricio  Molinete  could  have  no 
enemies.  To-morrow  will  atone  for  much  of  the  pettiness  of 
the  past. 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  5 

CAROLINA.  No  doubt.  I  feel  I  ought  to  be  proud  and 
happy,  although  you  understand  the  delicacy  of  my  posi- 
tion. Now  that  I  have  married  again,  my  name  is  not 
the  same.  Yet  it  is  impossible  to  ignore  the  fact  that  once 
it  was  mine,  especially  as  everybody  knows  that  we  were  a 
model  couple.  I  might  perhaps  have  avoided  the  situation 
by  leaving  town  for  a  few  days  on  account  of  my  health, 
but  then  that  might  have  been  misinterpreted.  People 
might  have  thought  that  I  was  displeased,  or  that  I  declined 
to  participate. 

ZITRITA.  Assuredly.  Although  your  name  is  no  longer 
the  same,  owing  to  circumstances,  the  force  of  which  we 
appreciate,  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  deprived 
of  the  honor  of  having  borne  it  worthily  at  the' time.  Your 
present  husband  has  no  right  to  take  offense. 

CAROLINA.  No,  poor  Florencio !  In  fact,  he  was  the  first 
to  realize  that  I  ought  to  take  a  leading  part  in  the  rejoicing. 
Poor  Florencio  was  always  poor  Patricio's .  greatest  admirer. 
Their  political  ideas  were  the  same;  they  agreed  in  every- 
thing. 

ZURITA.  Apparently. 

CAROLINA.  As  I  have  reason  to  know.  Poor  Patricio 
loved  me  dearly;  perhaps  that  was  what  led  poor  Florencio 
to  imagine  that  there  was  something  in  me  to  justify  the 
affection  of  that  great-hearted  and.  intelligent  man.  It" was " 
enough  for  me  to  know  that  Florencio  was  Patricio's  most 
intimate  friend  in  order  to  form  my  opinion  of  him.-  Of 
course,  I  recognize  that  Florencio's  gifts  will  never  enable 
him  to  shine  so  brilliantly,  but  that  is  not  to  say  that  he  is 
wanting  in  ability.  He  lacks  ambition,  that  is  all.  All  his 
desires  are  satisfied  at  home  with  me,  at  his  own  fireside. 
And  I  am  as  well  pleased  to  have  it  *o.  I  nm  not  ambitious 
myself.  The  seasons  which  I  spent  with  my  husband  in 


6  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

Madrid  were  a  source  of  great  uneasin£S»^t6  me.  I  passed 
•-the  week  during  which  he  wa*-Mmister  of  Agriculture  in 
'one  continual  state  jjf  attfhety.  Twice  he  nearly  had  a  duel 
— over  some  political  ^uestion,.  I  did  not  know  which  way 
to  turn,  if  he  hud  ever  become  Prime  Minister,  as  was 
actually  predicted  by  a  newspaper  which  he  controlled,  I 
should  have  been  obliged  to  take  to  my  bed  for  the  week. 

ZUKITA.  You  are  not  like  our  senator's  wife,  Senora 
Espinosa,  nor  the  wife  of  our  present  mayor.  They  will 
never  rest,  nor  allow  others  to  &&  so,  until  they  see  their 
husbands  erected  in  marble. 

CAROLINA.  Dfr  you  think  that  either  Espinosa  or  the 
mayor  are  of  a  caliber  ta^deserve  statues? 

ZURITA.  Not  publicly,  perhaps.  In  a  private  chapel,  in 
the  class  of  martyrs  and  husbands^  it  might  not  be  in- 
appropriate. But  I  am  growing  impatient. 

CAROLINA.  As  you  say,  friend  Zurita,  it  might  seem 
marked  for  me  to  leave  the  city.  Yet  if  I  remain  I  must  at- 
tend the  unveiling  of  the  monument  to  my  poor  Patricio; 
I  must  be  present  at  the  memorial  exercises  to-night  in  his 
honor;  I  must  receive  the  delegations  from  Madrid  and  the 
other  cities,  as  well  as  the  committees  from  the  rest  of  the 
province.  But  what  attitude  ought  I  to  assume?  If  I 
seem  too  sad,  nobody  will  believe  that  my  feeling  is  sincere. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  would  not  be  proper  to  appear  alto- 
gether reconciled.  Then  people  would  think  that  I  had  for- 
gotten too  quickly.  In  fact,  they  think  so  already. 

ZURITA.  Oh,  no!  You  were  very  young  when  you  be- 
came a  widow.  Life  was  just  beginning  for  you. 

CAROLINA.  It  is  a  delicate  matter,  however,  to  explain  to 
my  sisters-in-law.  Tell  me,  what  ought  I  to  wear  ?  Anything 
severe,  an  attempt  at  mourning,  would  be  ridiculous,  since 
I  am  going  with  my  husband;  on  the  other  hand,  I  should 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  7 

not  like  to  suggest  a  festive  spirit.  What  do  you  think, 
friend  Zurita?  Give  me  your  advice.  What  would  you 
wear? 

ZURITA.  It  is  hard  to  say;  the  problem  is  difficult.  Some- 
thing rich  and  black,  perhaps,  relieved  by  a  note  of  violet. 
The  unveiling  of  a  monument  to  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  a  great  man  is  not  an  occasion  for  mourning.  Your  hus- 
band is  partaking  already  of  the  joys  of  immortality,  in 
wfeieh^  no  doubt,  he  anticipates  you. 

CAROLINA.  Thank  you  so  much. 

ZURITA.  Do  not  thank  me.  You  have  done  enough. 
You  have  been  faithful  to  his  memory.  You  have  married 
again,  but  you  have  married  a  man  who  was  your  husband's 
most  intimate  friend.  You  have  not  acted  like  other  widows 
of  my  acquaintance — Senora  Benitez,  for  example.  She  has 
been  living  for  two  years  with  the  deadliest  enemy  her  hus- 
band had  in  the  province,  without  any  pretense  at  getting 
married — which  in  her  case  would  have  been  preposterous. 

CAROLINA.  There  is  no  comparison. 

ZURITA.  <M»,  my  friend;  everybody  sympathizes  with  your 
position,  as  they  ought. 

CAROLINA.  The  only  ones  who  worry  me  are  my  sisters- 
in-law.  They  insist  that  my  position  is  ridiculous,  and  that 
of  my  husband  still  more  so.  They  do  not  see  how  we  can 
have  the  effrontery  to  present  ourselves  before  the  statue. 

ZURITA.  Senora,  I  should  not  hesitate  though  it  were  that 
of  the  Commander.  Your  sisters-in-law  exaggerate.  Your 
present  husband  is  the  only  one  you  have  to  consider. 

CAROLINA.  I  have  no  misgivings  upon  that  score.  I  know 
that  both  will  appreciate  that  my  feelings  are  sincere,  one 
in  this  world,  and  the  other  from  the  next.  As  for  the  rest, 
the  rest 

ZURITA.  The  rest  are  your  friends  and  your  second  bus- 


8  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

band's  friends,  as  we  were  of  the  first.     We  shall  all  take 
your  part.     The  others  you  can  afford  to  neglect. 

CABOLINA.  Thanks  for  those  words  of  comfort.  I  knew 
that  you  were  a  good  friend  of  ours,  as  you  were  also  of  liis. 

ZURITA.  A  friend  to  both,  to  all  three;    si,  senora,  to  ali 
three.     But  here  is  your  husband. 
DON  FLORENCIO  enters. 

ZURITA.  Don  Florencio  !     My  friend ! 

FLORENCIO.  My  dear  Zurita !  I  am  delighted  to  see  you ! 
I  wish  to  thank  you  for  that  charming  article  in  memory  of 
our  never-to-be-forgotten  friend.  It  was  good  of  you,  and 
I  appreciate  it.  You  have  certainly  proved  yourself  an 
excellent  friend  of  his.  Thanks,  my  dear  Zurita,  thanks ! 
Carolina  and  I  are  both  indebted  to  you  for  your  charming 
article.  It  brought  tears  to  our  eyes.  Am  I  right,  Carolina  ? 

CAROLINA.  We  were  tremendously  affected  by  it. 

FLORENCIO.  Friend  Zurita,  I  am  deeply  gratified.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  province,  all  parties  have 
united  to  do  honor  to  this  region's  most  eminent  son.  But 
have  you  seen  the  monument?  It  is  a  work  of  art.  The 
statue  is  a  perfect  likeness — it  is  the  man,  the  man  himself ! 
The  allegorical  features  are  wonderfully  artistic — Commerce, 
Industry,  and  Truth  taken  together  in  the  nude.  Nothing 
finer  could  be  wished.  You  can  imagine -the  trouble,  how- 
ever, we  had  with  the  nudes.  The  conservative  element 
opposed  the  nudes,  but  the  sculptor  declined  to  proceed  if 
the  nudes  were  suppressed.  In  the  end  we  won  a  decisive 
victory  for  Art. 

CAROLINA.  Do  you  know,  I  think  it  would  have  been  just 
as  well  not  to  have  had  any  nudes?  What  was  the  use  of 
offending  anybody?  Several  of  our  friends  are  going  to  re- 
main away  from  the  ceremonies  upon  that  account. 

FLORENCIO.  How  ridiculous!    That  only  shows  how  far 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  9 

we  are  beliind  the  times.  You  certainly  have  no  feeling  of 
that  sort  after  having  been  the  companion  of  that  great, 
that  liberal  man.  I  remember  the  trip  we  took  to  Italy  to- 
gether— you  surely  recollect  it,  Carolina.  I  never  saw  a 
man  so  struck  with  admiration  at  those  marvellous  monu- 
ments of  pagan  and  Renaissance  art.  Oh,  what  a  man ! 
What  a  wonderful  man !  He  was  an  artist.  Ah !  Before 
I  forget  it,  Carolina,  Gutierrez  asked  me  for  any  pictures 
you  have  for  the  special  edition  of  his  paper,  and  I  should 
like  to  have  him  publish  the  verses  which  he  wrote  you  when 
you  were  first  engaged.  Did  you  ever  see  those  verses? 
That  man  might  have  been  a  poet — he  might  have  been 
anything  else  for  that  matter.  Talk  about  letters !  I  wish 
you  could  see  his  letters.  Carolina,  let  us  see  some  of  those 
letters  he  wrote  you  when  you  were  engaged. 

CAROLINA.  Not  now.     This  is  hardly  the  time.  . . . 

FLOBENCIO.  Naturally.  In  spite  of  the  satisfaction  which 
we  feel,  these  are  trying  days  for  us.  We  are  united  by-mir 
memories.  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  able  to  control  myself 
at  the  unveiling  of  the  statue. 

CAROLINA.  Florencio,  for  heaven's  sake,  you  must !  You 
must  control  yourself. 

ZURITA.  Yes,  do  control  yourself.    You  must. 

FLORENCIO.  I  am  controlling  myself. 

ZURITA.  If  there  is  nothing  further  that  I  can  do .... 

CAROLINA.  No,  thank  you,  Zurita.  I  am  awfully  obliged 
to  you.  Now  that  I  know  what  I  am  to  wear,  the  situation 
does  not  seem  hah*  so  embarrassing. 

ZURITA.  I  understand.  A  woman's  position  is  never  so 
embarrassing  as  when  she  is  hesitating  as  to  what  to  put 
on. 

CAROLINA.  Until  to-morrow  then? 

ZURITA.  Don  Florencio ! 


10  HIS  WIDOW'S  nrsiuM) 

FLORENCIO.  Thank  you  again  for  your  charming  article. 
It  was  admirable !     Admirable ! 
ZURITA  retires. 

FLORENCIO.  I  see  that  you  feel  it  deeply;  you  are  touched. 
So  am  I.  It  is  foolish  to  attempt  to  conceal  it. 

CAROLINA.  I  don't  know  how  to  express  it,  but — I  am  upset. 

FLORENCIO.  Don't  forget  the  pictures,  however,  especially 
the  one  where  the  three  of  us  were  taken  together  on  the 
second  platform  of  the  Eiffel  tower.  It  was  particularly  good. 

CAROLINA.  Yes,  something  out  of  the  ordinary.  Don't 
you  think,  perhaps,  that  our  private  affairs, our  familylife. . . . 
How  do  we  know  whether  at  this  time,  in  our  situation.  . .  . 

FLORENCIO.  What  are  you  afraid  of?  That  is  the  woman 
of  it.  How  narrow-minded !  You  ought  to  be  above  such 
pettiness  after  having  been  the  wife  of  such  an  intelligent 
man.  Every  detail  of  the  private  life  of  the  great  has  its 
interest  for  history.  Those  of  us  who  knew  him,  who  in  a 
certain  sense  were  his  colaborers — you  will  not  accuse  me 
of  immodesty — his  colaborers  in  the  great  work  of  his  life, 
owe  it  to  history  to  see  that  the  truth  be  known. 

CAKOLINA.  Nevertheless  I  hardly  think  I  would  print  those 
letters — much  less  the  verses.  Do  you  remember  what  they 
said  ? 

FLORENCIO.  Of  course  I  remember: 

"Like  a  moth  on  a  pin  I  preserve  all  your  kisses !  . .  .  " 

Everybody  makes  allowances  for  poetry.  Nobody  is  going 
to  take  seriously  what  he  reads  in  a  poem.  He  married  you 
anyway.  Why  should  any  one  object? 

CAROLINA.  Stop,  Florencio  !  What  are  you  talking  about  ? 
We  are  making  ourselves  ridiculous. 

FLORENCIO.  Why  should  we  make  ourselves  ridiculous  ? 
Although  I  shall  certainly  stand  by  you,  whatever  you  de- 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  11 

cide,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  I  am  your  husband, 
his  widow's  husband.  Otherwise  people  might  think  that  I 
wanted  you  to  forget,  that  I  was  jealous  of  his  memory; 
and  you  know  that  is  not  the  case.  You  know  how  I  admired 
him,  how  I  loved  him — just  as  he  did  me.  Nobody  could 
get  along  with  him  as  well  as  I  could;  he  was  not  easy  to 
get  along  with,  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  that.  He  had  his 
peculiarities — they  were  the  peculiarities  of  a  great  man — 
but  they  were  great  peculiarities.  Like  all  great  men,  he 
had  an  exaggerated  opinion  of  himself.  He  was  horribly 
stubborn,  like  all  strong  characters.  Whenever  he  got  on 
one  of  his  hobbies  no  power  on  earth  could  pry  him  off  of 
it.  It  is  only  out  of  respect  that  I  do  not  say  he  was  pig- 
headed. I  was  the  only  one  who  had  the  tact  and  the  pa- 
tience to  do  anything  with  him;  you  know  that  well  enough. 
How  often  you  said  to  me:  "Oh,  Florencio!  I  can't  stand 
it  any  longer!"  And  then  I  would  reason  with  you  and 
talk  to  him,  and  every  time  that  you  had  a  quarrel  I  was 
the  one  who  consoled  you  afterward. 

CAROLINA.  Florencio,  you  are  perfectly  disgusting !  You 
have  no  right  to  talk  like  this. 

FLORENCIO.  Very  well  then,  my  dear.  I  understand  how 
you  feel.  This  is  a  time  when  everybody  is  dwelling  on  his 
virtues,  his  good  qualities,  but  I  want  you  to  remember  that 
that  great  man  had  also  his  faults. 

CAROLINA.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about. 

FLORENCIO.  Compare  me  with  him 

CAROLINA.  Florencio !  You  know  that  in  my  mind  there 
has  never  been  any  comparison.  Comparisons  are  odious. 

FLORENCIO.  Not  necessarily.     But  of  course  you  have  not ! 

(You  have  never  regretted  giving  up  his  distinguished  name, 

have  you,  Carolina,  for  this  humble  one  of  mine?     Only  I 

want  you  to  understand  that  if  I  had  desired  to  shine,  if  I 


12  HIS   WIDOW'S   HUSBAND 

had  been  ambitious.  ...     I  have  talent  myself.     Now  admit 
it! 

CAROLINA.  Of  course  I  do,  my  dear,  of  course !  But 
what  is  the  use  of  talking  nonsense? 

FLORENX-IO.  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ?  You 
are  nervous  to-day.  It  is  impossible  to  conduct  a  sensible 
conversation. — Hello !  Your  sisters-in-law !  I  am  not  at 
home. 

CAROLINA.  Don't  excite  yourself.  They  never  ask  for 
you. 

FLORENCIO.  I  am  delighted  ! .  . .  .  Well,  I  wish  you  a  short 
session  and  escape. 

CAROLINA.  I  am  in  a  fine  humor  for  this  sort  of  thing 
myself. 

FLORENCIO  goes  out. 

EUDOSIA  and  PAQUITA  enter. ,— 

EUDOSIA.  I  trust  that  we  do  not  intrude? 

CAROLINA.  How  can  you  ask?     Come  right  in. 

EUDOSIA.  It  seems  we  find  you  at  home  for  once. 

CAROLINA.  So  it  seems. 

PAQUITA.  Strange  to  say,  whenever  we  call  you  always 
appear  to  be  out. 

CAROLINA.  A  coincidence. 

EUDOSIA.  The  coincidence  is  to  find  you  at  home.  [A  pause} 
We  passed  your  husband  on  the  street. 

CAROLINA.  Are  you  sure  that  you  would  recognize  him? 

PAQUITA.  Oh !    He  was  not  alone. 

CAROLINA.  Is  that  so? 

EUDOSIA.  Paquita  saw  him  with  Somolino's  wife,  at 
Sanchez  the  confectioner's. 

CAROLINA.  Very  possibly. 

PAQUITA.  I  should  not  make  light  of  it,  if  I  were  you. 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  13 

You  know  what  Somolino's  wife  is,  to  say  nothing  of  Sanchez 
the  confectioner. 

CAROLINA.  I  didn't  know  about  the  confectioner. 

EUDOSIA.  No  respectable  woman,  no  woman  who  even 
pretends  to  be  respectable,  would  set  foot  in  his  shop  since 
he  married  that  French  girl. 

CAROLINA.  I  didn't  know  about  the  French  girl. 

EUDOSIA.  Yes,  he  married  her — I  say  married  her  to  avoid 
using  another  term.  He  married  her  in  Bayonne — if  you 
call  such  a  thing  marriage — civilly,  which  is  the  way  French 
people  marry.  It  is  a  land  of  perdition. 

CAROLINA.  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it  because  I  am  awfully 
fond  of  sweetmeats.  I  adore  bonbons  and  marrons  glac&s, 
and  nobody  here  has  as  good  ones  as  Sanchez,  nor  anywhere 
else  for  that  matter. 

PAQUITA.  In  that  case  you  had  as  well  deny  yourself,  un- 
less you  are  prepared  to  invite  criticism.  Somolino's  wife 
is  the  only  woman  who  enters  the  shop  and  faces  the  French 
girl,  who  gave  her  a  recipe  for  dyeing  her  hair  on  the  spot. 
You  must  have  noticed  how  she  is  doing  it  now. 

CAROLINA.  I  hadn't  noticed. 

EUDOSIA.  It  is  not  jet-black  any  more;  it  is  baby-pink — 
so  she  is  having  the  Frenchwoman  manicure  her  nails  twice 
a  week.  Have  you  noticed  the  condition  of  her  nails? 
They  are  the  talk  of  the  town.  [A  pause. 

PAQUITA.    Well,  I  trust  he  is  satisfied. 

CAROLINA.  Who  is  he? 

PAQUITA.  I  do  not  call  him  your  husband.  Oh,  our  poor, 
dear  brother ! 

CAROLINA.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  what  you  are 
talking  about. 

EUDOSIA.  So  he  has  had  his  way  at  last  and  desecrated 


14  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

the  statue  of  our  poor  brother  with  the  figures  of  those 
naked  women  ? 

PAQTTITA.  As  large  as  life. 

CAROLINA.  But  Florencio  is  not  responsible.  It  was  the 
sculptor  and  the  committee.  I  cannot  see  anything  objec- 
tionable in  them  myself.  There  are  such  figures  on  all  monu- 
ments. They  are  allegorical. 

EUDOSIA.  I  could  understand,  perhaps,  why  the  statue  of 
Truth  should  be  unclothed.  Something  of  the  sort  was 
always  expected  of  Truth.  But  I  must  say  that  Commerce 
and  Industry  might  have  had  a  tunic  at  least.  Commerce, 
in  my  opinion,  is  particularly  indecent. 

PAQUITA.  We  have  declined  the  seats  which  were  reserved 
for  us.  They  were  directly  in  front  and  you  could  see  every- 
thing. 

EUDOSIA.  I  suppose  you  still  intend  to  be  present?  What 
a  pity  that  there  is  nobody  to  give  you  proper  advice ! 

CAROLINA.  As  I  have  been  invited,  I  judge  that  I  shall  be 
welcome  as  I  am. 

PAQUITA.  Possibly — if  it  were  good  form  for  you  to  ap- 
pear at  all.  But  when  you  exhibit  yourself  with  that  man 
— who  was  his  best  friend — after  only  three  short  years ! 

CAROLINA.  Three  long  years. 

EUDOSIA.  No  doubt  they  seemed  long  to  you.  Three 
years,  did  I  say  ?  They  were  like  days  to  us  who  still  keep 
his  memory  green ! 

PAQUITA.  Who  still  bear  his  name,  because  no  other  name 
sounds  so  noble  in  our  ears. 

EUDOSIA.  Rather  than  change  it,  we  have  declined  very 
flattering  proposals. 

CAROLINA.  I  am  afraid  that  you  have  made  a  mistake. 
You  remember  that  your  brother  was  very  anxious  to  see 
you  married, 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  15 

PAQUITA.  He  imagined  that  all  men  were  like  him,  and 
deserved  wives  like  us,  our  poor,  dear  brother !  Who  would 
ever  have  dreamed  he  could  have  been  forgotten  so  soon? 
Fancy  his  emotions  as  he  looks  down  on  you  from  the  skies. 

CAROLINA.  I  do  not  believe  for  one  moment  that  he  has 
any  regrets.  If  he  had,  then  what  would  be  the  use  of  being 
in  paradise?  Don't  you  worry  about  me.  The  best  thing 
that  a  young  widow  can  do  is  marry  at  once.  I  was  a  very 
young  widow. 

EUDOSIA.  You  were  twenty-nine. 

CAROLINA.  Twenty-six. 

EUDOSIA.  We  concede  you  twenty-six.  At  all  events,  you 
were  not  a  child — not  to  speak  of  the  fact  that  no  widow 
can  be  said  to  be  a  child. 

CAROLINA.  No  more  than  a  single  woman  can  be  said  to 
be  old.  However,  I  fail  to  see  that  there  would  be  any 
impropriety  in  my  being  present  at  the  unveiling  of  the 
statue. 

EUDOSIA.  Do  you  realize  that  the  premature  death  of 
your  husband  will  be  the  subject  of  all  the  speakers  ?  They 
will  dwell  on  the  bereavement  which  we  have  suffered 
through  the  loss  of  such  an  eminent  man.  How  do  you  pro- 
pose to  take  it?  When  people  see  you  standing  there,  com- 
placent and  satisfied,  alongside  of  that  man,  do  you  suppose 
they  will  ever  believe  that  you  are  not  reconciled  ? 

PAQUITA.  What  will  your  husband  do  while  they  are  ex- 
tolling the  genius  of  our  brother,  and  he  knows  that  he  never 
had  any  ? 

CAROLINA.  That  was  not  your  brother's  opinion.  He 
thought  very  highly  of  Florencio. 

EUDOSIA.  Very  highly.  Our  poor,  dear  brother !  Among 
his  other  abilities  he  certainly  had  an  extraordinary  aptitude 
for  allowing  himself  to  be  deceived. 


16  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

CAROLINA.  That  assumption  is  offensive  to  me;  it  is  un- 
fair to  all  of  us. 

EUDOSIA.  I  hope  you  brought  it  with  you,  Paquita? 

PAQUITA.  Yes;  here  it  is.  [Talcing  out  a  book. 

EUDOSIA.  Just  look  through  this  book  if  you  have  a  mo- 
ment. It  arrived  to-day  from  Madrid  and  is  on  sale  at  Val- 
divieso's.  Just  glance  through  it. 

CAROLINA.  What  is  the  book?  [Reading  the  title  upon  the 
cover]  "Don  Patricio  Molinete,  the  Man  and  His  Work.  A 
Biography.  Together  with  His  Correspondence  and  an 
Estimate  of  His  Life."  Why,  thanks 

PAQUITA.  No,  do  not  thank  us.  Read,  read  what  our  poor 
brother  has  written  to  the  author  of  this  book,  who  was  one 
of  his  intimate  friends. 

CAROLINA.  Recaredo  Casalonga.  Ah !  I  remember — a 
rascal  we  were  obliged  to  turn  out  of  the  house.  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  scamp  Casalonga  has  any  letters  ?  Merely 
to  hear  the  name  makes  me  nervous. 

EUDOSIA.  But  go  on!  Page  two  hundred  and  fourteen. 
Is  that  the  page,  Paquita? 

PAQUITA.  It  begins  on  page  two  hundred  and  fourteen,  but 
before  it  amounts  to  anything  you  turn  the  page. 

CAROLINA.  Quick,  quick !  Let  me  see.  What  does  he 
say  ?  What  are  these  letters  ?  What  is  this  ?  He  says  that 
I.  ...  But  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  My  husband 
could  never  have  written  this. 

EUDOSIA.  But  there  it  is  in  cold  type.  You  don't  suppose 
they  would  dare  to  print — 

CAROLINA.  But  this  is  outrageous;  this  book  is  a  libel. 
It  invades  the  private  life — the  most  private  part  of  it !  It 
must  be  stopped. 

EUDOSIA.  It  cannot  be  stopped.  You  will  soon  see  whether 
or  not  it  can  be  stopped. 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  17 

PAQUITA.  Probably  the  edition  is  exhausted  by  this  time. 

CAROLINA.  Is  that  so?  We  shall  see!  We  shall  see! — 
Florencio !  Florencio !  Come  quickly !  Florencio ! 

EUDOSIA.  Perhaps  he  has  not  yet  returned. 

PAQUITA.  He  seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself. 

CAROLINA.  Nonsense!  He  was  never  out  of  the  house. 
You  are  two  old  busybodies ! 

EUDOSIA.  Carolina !     You  said  that  without  thinking. 

PAQUITA.  I  cannot  believe  my  ears.  Did  you  say  busy- 
bodies  ? 

CAROLINA.  That  is  exactly  what  I  said.  Now  leave  me 
alone.  I  can't  stand  it.  It  is  all  your  fault.  You  are 
insupportable ! 

EUDOSIA  AND  PAQUITA.  Carolina! 

CAROLINA.  Florencio!    Florencio! 
FLORENCIO  enters. 

FLORENCIO.  What  is  it,  my  dear?  What  is  the  matter? 
Ah !  You  ?  I  am  delighted .... 

EUDOSIA.  Yes,  we !  And  we  are  leaving  this  house,  where 
we  have  been  insulted — forever! 

PAQUITA.  Where  we  have  been  called  busybodies ! 

EUDOSIA.  Where  we  have  been  told  that  we  were  insup- 
portable ! 

PAQUITA.  And  when  people  say  such  tilings  you  can 
imagine  what  they  think ! 

FLORENCIO.  But  Eudosia,  Paquita I  do  not  under- 
stand. As  far  as  I  am  concerned .... 

EUDOSIA.  The  person  who  is  now  your  wife  will  make  her 
explanations  to  you. 

PAQUITA.  I  never  expected  to  be  driven  out  of  our  brother's 
house  like  this! 

EUDOSIA.  Our  poor,  dear  brother! 

FLORENCIO.  But  Carolina 


18  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

CAROLINA.  Let  them  go!  Let  them  go!  They  are  im- 
possible. 

PAQUITA.  Did  you  hear  that,  Eudosia?  We  are  impos- 
sible ! 

EUDOSIA.  I  heard  it,  Paquita.  There  is  nothing  left  for 
us  to  hear  in  this  house. 

CAROLINA.  Yes  there  is !  You  are  as  impossible  as  all  old 
maids. 

EUDOSIA.  There  was  something  for  us  to  hear  after  all! 
Come,  Paquita. 

PAQUITA.  Come,  Eudosia. 
They  go  out. 

FLORENCIO.  What  is  this  trouble  between  you  and  your 
sisters-in-law  ? 

CAROLINA.  There  isn't  any  trouble.  We  were  arguing, 
that  was  all.  There  is  nothing  those  women  like  so  much 
as  gossip,  or  making  themselves  disagreeable  in  any  way 
they  can.  Do  you  remember  Casalonga? 

FLORENCIO.  Recaredo  Casalonga?  I  should  say  I  did  re- 
member him!  That  man  was  a  character,  and  strange  to 
say,  a  profound  philosopher  with  it  all.  He  was  quite  a 
humorist. 

CAROLINA.  Yes,  he  was.  Well,  this  philosopher,  this  hu- 
morist, has  conceived  the  terribly  humorous  idea  of  publish- 
ing this  book. 

FLORENCIO.  Let  me  see.  "Don  Patricio  Molinete,  the 
Man  and  His  Work.  A  Biography.  Together  with  His 
Correspondence  and  an  Estimate  of  His  Life."  A  capital 
idea !  They  were  great  friends,  you  know,  although  I  don't 
suppose  that  there  can  be  anything  particular  in  the  book. 
What  could  Casalonga  tell  us  anyway? 

CAROLINA.  Us  ?    Nothing.    But  go  on,  go  on. 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  19 

FLOEENCIO.  You  don't  say!  Letters  of  Patricio's.  Ad- 
dressed to  whom? 

CAROLINA.  To  the  author  of  the  book,  so  it  seems.  Per- 
sonal letters,  they  are  confidential.  Go  on,  go  on. 

FLORENCIO.  "Dear  Friend:  Life  is  sad.  Perhaps  you  ask 
the  cause  of  my  disillusionment.  How  is  it  that  I  have  lost 
my  faith  in  the  future,  in  the  future  of  our  unfortunate  land?" 
I  remember  that  time.  He  was  already  ill.  This  letter  was 
written  after  he  had  liver  complaint  and  took  a  dark  view  of 
everything.  Ah!  What  a  pity  that  great  men  should  be 
subject  to  such  infirmities!  Think  of  the  intellect  being 
made  the  slave  of  the  liver !  We  are  but  dust.  "The  future 
of  this  unfortunate  land.  ..." 

CAROLINA.  No,  that  doesn't  amount  to  anything.  Lower 
down,  lower  down.  Go  on. 

FLORENCIO.  "Life  is  sad !" 

CAROLINA.  Are  you  beginning  all  over  again  ? 

FLORENCIO.  No,  he  repeats  himself.  What  is  this?  "I 
never  loved  but  once  in  my  life;  I  never  loved  but  one  woman 
— my  wife."  He  means  you. 

CAROLINA.  Yes.    Go  on,  go  on. 

FLORENCIO.  "I  never  trusted  but  one  friend,  my  friend 
Florencio."  He  means  me. 

CAROLINA.  Yes,  yes;  he  means  you.    But  go  on,  go  on. 

FLORENCIO.  I  wonder  what  he  can  be  driving  at.  Ah! 
What  does  he  say?  That  you,  that  I. ... 

CAROLINA.  Go  on,  go  on. 

FLORENCIO.  "This  woman  and  this  man,  the  two  greatest, 
the  two  pure,  the  two  unselfish  passions  of  my  life,  in  whom 
my  very  being  was  consumed — how  can  I  bring  myself  to 
confess  it  ?  I  hardly  dare  admit  it  to  myself !  They  are  in 
love — they  love  each  other  madly — in  secret — perhaps  with- 
out even  suspecting  themselves." 


20  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

CAROLINA.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

FLORENCIO.  Suspecting  themselves. . . .  "They  are  strug- 
gling to  overcome  their  guilty  passion,  but  how  long  will  they 
continue  to  struggle  ?  Yet  I  am  sorry  for  them  both.  What 
ought  I  to  do?  I  cannot  sleep." 

CAROLINA.  What  do  you  say? 

FLORENCIO.  Impossible!  He  never  wrote  such  letters. 
Besides,  if  he  did,  they  ought  never  to  have  been  published. 

CAROLINA.  But  true  or  false,  they  have  been  published, 
and  here  they  are.  Ah !  But  this  is  nothing !  You  ought  to 
see  what  he  says  farther  on.  He  goes  on  communicating  his 
observations,  and  there  are  some,  to  be  perfectly  frank, 
which  nobody  could  have  made  but  himself. 

FLORENCIO.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  think 
these  letters  are  genuine? 

CAROLINA.  They  might  be  for  all  we  know.  He  gives 
dates  and  details. 

FLORENCIO.  And  all  the  time  we  thought  he  suspected 
nothing ! 

CAROLINA.  You  do  jump  so  at  conclusions,  Florencio. 
How  could  he  suspect  ?  You  know  how  careful  we  were  about 
everything,  no  matter  what  happened,  so  as  not  to  hurt  his 
feelings. 

FLORENCIO.  This  only  goes  to  show  all  the  good  that  it 
did  us. 

CAROLINA.  He  could  only  suspect — that  it  was  the  truth; 
that  we  were  loving  in  silence. 

FLORENCIO.  Then  perhaps  you  can  explain  to  me  what 
was  the  use  of  all  this  silence  ?  Don't  you  see  that  what  he 
has  done  now  is  to  go  and  blurt  the  whole  thing  out  to  this 
rascal  Casalonga? — an  unscrupulous  knave  whose  only  in- 
terest in  the  matter  is  to  turn  these  confidences  to  his  own 
advantage !  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  defend  it.  Such 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  21 

foolishness  was  unpardonable.  I  should  never  have  be- 
lieved it  of  my  friend.  If  he  had  any  doubts  about  me 
— about  us — why  didn't  he  say  so?  Then  we  could  have 
been  more  careful,  and  have  done  something  to  ease  his 
mind.  But  this  notion  of  running  and  telling  the  first  per- 

•^^ *  ''. 

son  who  happens  along .  J . .     What  a  position  does  it  leave 

^ ^~ 

me  in?  In  what  light  do  we  appear  at  this  time?  Now, 
when  everybody  is  paying  respect  to  his  memory,  and  I  have 
put  myself  to  all  this  trouble  in  order  to  raise  money  for  this 
monument — what  are  people  going  to  think  when  they  read 
these  things  ? 

CAROLINA.  I  always  said  that  we  would  have  trouble  with 
that  monument. 

FLORENCIO.  How  shall  I  have  the  face  to  present  myself 
to-morrow  before  the  monument? 

CAROLINA.  My  sisters-in-law  were  right.  We  are  going 
to  be  conspicuous. 

FLORENCIO.  Ah !  But  this  must  be  stopped.  I  shall  run 
at  once  to  the  offices  of  the  papers,  to  the  judicial  authori- 
ties, to  the  governor,  to  all  the  booksellers.  As  for  this 
Casalonga —  Ah !  I  will  settle  with  him !  Either  he  will 
retract  and  confess  that  these  letters  are  forgeries  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  or  I  will  kill  him !  I  will  fight  with  him  in 
earnest ! 

CAROLINA.  Florencio!  Don't  forget  yourself!  You  are 
going  too  far.  You  don't  mean  a  duel?  To  expose  your 
life? 

FLORENCIO.  Don't  you  see  that  it  is  impossible  to  submit 
to  such  an  indignity?  Where  is  this  thing  going  to  stop? 
Is  nobody's  private  life  to  be  secure?  And  this  goes  deeper 
than  the  private  life — it  impugns  the  sanctity  of  our  inten- 
tions. 

CAROLINA.  No,  Florencio ! 


22  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

FLORENCIO.  Let  me  go ! 

CAROLINA.  Florencio !    Anything  but  a  duel !    No,  no ! 

FLORENCIO.  Ah !  Either  he  will  retract  and  withdraw  the 
edition  of  this  libel  or,  should  he  refuse. . . . 

CAROLINA.  Zurita! 

FLORENCIO.  My  friend ....     You  are  just  in  time ! 
ZURITA  enters. 

ZURITA.  Don  Florencio Carolina....     Don't  say  a 

word  4-   I  know  how  you  feel. 

FLORENCIO.  Did  you  see  it  ?  Did  you  hear  it  ?  Is  this  a 
civilized  country  in  which  we  live? 

CAROLINA.  But  surely  he  has  not  heard  it  already  ? 

ZURITA.  Yes,  at  the  Club.  Some  one  had  the  book;  they 
were  passing  it  around .... 

FLORENCIO.  At  the  Club  ? 

ZURITA.  Don't  be  alarmed.  Everybody  thinks  it  is  black- 
mail— a  case  of  chantage.  Don  Patricio  could  never  have 
written  such  letters. 

FLORENCIO.  Ah !    So  they  think  that  ?   .• 

ZURITA.  Even  if  he  had,  they  deal  with  private  matters, 
which  ought  never  to  have  been  made  public. 

FLORENCIO.  Exactly  my  idea — with  private  matters;  they 
are  confidential. 

ZURITA.  I  lost  no  time,  as  you  may  be  sure,  in  hurrying  to 
Valdivieso's  shop,  where  the  books  are  on  sale.  I  found  him 
amazed;  he  was  entirely  innocent.  He  bought  the  copies 
supposing  that  the  subject  was  of  timely  importance;  that 
it  was  of  a  serious  nature.  He  hurried  at  once  to  withdraw 
the  copies  from  the  window,  and  ran  in  search  of  the  author. 

FLORENCIO.  Of  the  author  ?    Is  the  author  in  town  ? 

ZURITA.  Yes,  he  came  with  the  books;  he  arrived  with 
them  this  morning. 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  23 

FLORENCIO.  Ah  !  So  this  scamp  Casalonga  is  here,  is  he  ? 
Tell  me  where  I  can  find  him ! 

ZUHITA.  At  the  Hotel  de  Europa. 

CAROLINA.  Florencio !  Don't  you  go !  Hold  him  back ! 
He  means  to  challenge  him. 

ZURITA.  Never !  It  is  not  worth  the  trouble.  Besides, 
you  ought  to  hold  yourself  above  such  things.  Your  wife  is 
above  them. 

FLORENCIO.  But  what  will  people  say,  friend  Zurita? 
What  will  people  say? 

ZURITA.  Everybody  thinks  it  is  a  huge  joke. 

FLORENCIO.  A  joke?    Then  our  position  is  ridiculous. 

ZURITA.  I  did  not  say  that.     What  I  do  say. . . . 

FLORENCIO.  No,  no,  friend  Zurita;  you  are  a  man  of 
honor,  you  know  that  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  kill  this  man. 

CAROLINA.  But  suppose  he  is  the  one  who  kills  you  ?  No, 
Pforencio,  not  a  duel !  What  is  the  use  of  the  courts  ? 

FLORENCIO.  No,  I  prefer  to  fight.  My  dear  Zurita,  run 
in  search  of  another  friend  and  stop  at  the  Hotel  de  Europa 
as  my  representatives.  Seek  out  this  man,  exact  reparation 
upon  the  spot — a  reparation  which  shall  be  resounding,  com- 
plete. Either  he  declares  over  his  own  signature  that  those 
letters  are  impudent  forgeries  or,  should  he  refuse.  . . . 

CAROLINA.  Florencio! 

FLORENCIO.  Stop  at  nothing !  Do  not  haggle  over  terms. 
Let  it  be  pistols  with  real  bullets,  as  we  pace  forward  each 
to  each ! 

ZURITA.  But  Don  Florencio ! 

CAROLINA.  Don't  go,  I  beg  of  you !  Don't  leave  the 
house ! 

FLORENCIO.  You  are  my  friend — go  at  once ! 

CAROLINA.  No,  he  will  never  go ! 


24  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

ZURITA.  But  Don  Florencio!  Consider....  The  sit.ua- 
tion  is  serious. 

FLORENCIO.  When  a  man  is  made  ridiculous  the  situation 
ceases  to  be  serious !  How  shall  I  have  the  face  to  show 
myself  before  the  monument  ?  I — his  most  intimate  friend ! 
She,  my  wife,  his  widow !  And  everybody  thinking  all  the 
while  of  those  letters,  imagining  that  I,  that  she. . .  .  No,  t K 
no !  Run !  Bring  me  that  retraction  at  once. 

ZURITA.  Not  so  fast !    I  hear  the  voice  of  Valdivieso. 

FLORENCIO.  Eh?  And  Casalonga's!  Has  that  man  the 
audacity  to  present  himself  in  my  house? 

ZURITA.  Be  calm !  Since  he  is  here,  perhaps  he  comes  to 
explain.  Let  me  see [He  goes  out. 

CAROLINA.  Florencio !  Don't  you  receive  him !  Don't 
you  have  anything  to  do  with  that  man ! 

FLORENCIO.  I  am  in  my  own  house.  Never  fear !  I  shall 
not  forget  to  conduct  myself  as  a  gentleman.  Now  we  shall 
see  how  he  explains  the  matter;  we  shall  see.  But  you  had 
better  retire  first.  Questions  of  honor  are  not  for  women. 

CAROLINA.  You  know  best;  only  I  think  I  might  remain 
within  earshot.  I  am  nervous.  My-dear ! — Where  are  your 
arms? 

FLORENCIO.  What  do  I  need  of  arms? 

CAROLINA.  Be  careful  just  the  same.  Keep  cool !  Think 
of  me. 

FLORENCIO.  I  am  in  my  own  house.     Have  no  fear. 

CAROLINA.  It  upsets  me  dreadfully  to  j3e»-yt»u  in  such  a 
state. 

FLORENCIO.  What  are  you  doing  now  ? 

CAROLINA.  Removing  these  vases  in  case  you  should  throw 
things.  I  should  hate  awfully  to  lose  them;  they  were  a 
present. 

FLORENCIO.  Hurry,  dear ! 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  25 

CAROLINA.  I  am  horribly  nervous.  Keep  cool,  for  heavens' 
sake  !  Control  yourself.  [Goes  out. 

ZURITA  re-enters. 

ZURITA.  Are  you  calmer  now? 

FLORENCIO.  Absolutely.     Is  that  man  here? 

ZURITA.  Yes,  Valdivieso  brought  him.  He  desires  to  ex- 
plain. 

FLORENCIO.  Who?  Valdivieso?  Naturally.  But  that 
other  fellow,  that  Casalonga — what  does  he  want? 

ZURITA.  To  have  a  few  words  with  you;  to  offer  a  thousand 
explanations. 

FLORENCIO.  No  more  than  one  explanation  is  possible. 

ZURITA.  Consider  a  moment.  In  my  opinion  it  will  be 
wiser  to  receive  him.  He  appears  to  be  innocent. 

FLORENCIO.  Of  the  first  instincts  of  a  gentleman. 

ZURITA.  Exactly.  I  did  not  venture  to  put  it  so  plainly. 
He  attaches  no  importance  to  the  affair  whatever. 

FLORENCIO.  Of  course  not !     It  is  nothing  to  him. 

ZURITA.  Nothing.  However,  you  will  find  him  disposed 
to  go  to  any  length — retract,  make  a  denial,  withdraw  the 
book  from  circulation.  You  had  best  have  a  few  words  with 
him.  But  first  promise  me  to  control  yourself.  Shall  I  ask 
them  to  come  in  ? 

FLORENCIO.  Yes ....  yes !    Ask  them  to  come  in. 

ZURITA.  Poor  Valdivieso  is  awfully  put  out.  He  always 
had  such  a  high  opinion  of  you.  You  are  one  of  the  two  or 
three  persons  in  this  town  who  buy  books.  It  would  be  a 
tremendous  relief  to  him  if  you  would  only  tell  him  that  you 
knew  he  was  incapable.  .  . . 

FLORENCIO.  Thoroughly  !  Poor  Valdivieso  !  Ask  him  to 
come  in;  ask  them  both  to  come  in. 

ZURITA  retires  and  returns  presently  with  VALDIVIESO 
and  CASALONGA. 


26  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

VALDIVIESO.  Sefior  Don  Florencio !  I  hardly  know  what 
to  say.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  not  question  my  good  faith 
in  the  matter.  I  had  no  idea ....  in  fact  I  never  suspected .... 

FLORENCIO.  I  always  knew  you  were  innocent;  but  this 
person.  .  .  . 

CASALONGA.  Come,  come  now !    Don't  blame  it  on  me. 
How  the  devil  was  I  to  know  that  you  were  here — and  mar- 
ried to  his  widow  !     Sport  for  the  gods  ! 

FLORENCIO.  Do  you  hear  what  he  says? 

ZURITA.  I  told  you  that  he  appeared  to  be  innocent. 

FLORENCIO.  And  I  told  you  that  he  was  devoid  of  the  first 
instincts  of  a  gentleman;  although  I  failed  to  realize  to 
what  an  extent.  Sir 

CASALONGA.  Don't  be  absurd !    Stop  making  faces  at  me. 

FLORENCIO.  In  the  first  place,  I  don't  recall  that  we  were 
ever  so  intimate. 

CASALONGA.  Of  course  we  were !  Of  course !  Anyhow, 
what  difference  does  it  make  ?  We  were  together  for  a  whole 
season;  we  were  inseparable.  Hard  times  those  for  us  both  ! 
But  what  did  we  care?  When  one  of  us  was  out  of  money, 
all  he  had  to  do  was  to  ask  the  other,  and  be  satisfied. 

FLORENCIO.  Yes;  I  seem  to  recall  that  the  other  was  al- 
ways I. 

CASALONGA.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  That  might  be.  Stranger  things 
have  happened.  But  you  are  not  angry  with  me,  are  you? 
The  thing  is  not  worth  all  this  fuss. 

FLORENCIO.  Do  you  hear  what  he  says  ? 

VALDIVIESO.  You  may  be  sure  that  if  I  had  had  the 
slightest  idea.  ...  I  bought  the  books  so  as  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  timeliness  of  the  monument.  If  I  had  ever 
suspected. . . . 

CASALONGA.  Identically  my  position — to  take  advantage 
of  the  monument.  Life  is  hard.  While  the  conservatives 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  27 

are  in  power,  I  am  reduced  to  extremities.  I  am  at  my 
wit's  end  to  earn  an  honest  penny. 

FLOREXCIO.  I  admire  your  colossal  impudence.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  a  man  like  this? 

ZURITA.  Exactly  the  question  that  occurred  to  me.  What 
are  you  going  to  do? 

CASALONGA.  For  a  time  I  was  reduced  to  writing  plays — 
like  everybody  else — although  mine  were  better.  That  was 
the  reason  they  did  not  succeed.  Then  I  married  my  last 
landlady;  I  was  obliged  to  settle  with  her  somehow.  A 
little  difference  arose  between  us,  so  we  agreed  to  separate 
amicably  after  smashing  all  the  furniture.  However,  that 
will  be  of  no  interest  to  you. 

FLORENCIO.  No,  no,  it  is  of  no  interest  to  me. 

CASALONGA.  A  novel,  my  boy !  A  veritable  work  of  ro- 
mance !  I  wandered  all  over  the  country  explaining  views 
for  the  cinematograph.  You  know  what  a  gift  I  have  for 
talk  ?  Wherever  I  appeared  the  picture  houses  were  crowded 
— even  to  the  exits.  Then  my  voice  gave  out.  I  was  obliged 
to  find  some  other  outlet  for  my  activities.  I  thought  of  my 
friends.  You  know  what  friends  are;  as  soon  as  a  man 
needs  them  he  hasn't  any  friends.  Which  way  was  I  to 
turn  ?  I  happened  to  hear  that  you  were  unveiling  a  monu- 
ment to  the  memory  of  friend  Patricio.  Poor  Patricio ! 
That  man  was  a  friend !  He  could  always  be  relied  upon. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  write  out  a  few  pages  of  remin- 
iscences— preferably  something  personal — and  publish  any 
letters  of  his  which  I  had  chanced  to  preserve. 

FLORENCIO.  What  luck ! 

CASALONGA.  Pshaw !  Bread  and  butter — bread  and  but- 
ter, man !  A  mere  pittance.  It  occurred  to  me  that  they 
would  sell  better  here  than  anywhere  else — this  is  where  he 
lived.  So  I  came  this  morning  third  class — think  of  that, 


28  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

third  class ! — and  hurried  at  once  to  this  fellow's  shop.  1 
placed  two  thousand  copies  with  him,  which  he  took  from  me 
at  a  horrible  discount.  You  know  what  these  booksellers 
are. .  .  . 

VALDIVIESO.  I  caJ  you  to  witness — what  was  customary 
under  the  circumstances.  He  was  selling  for  cash. 

CASALONGA.  Am  I  the  man  to  deny  it?  You  can  divide 
mankind  into  two  classes — knaves  and  fools. 

VALDIVIESO.  Listen  to  this — 

CASALONGA.  You  are  not  one  of  the  fools. 

VALDIVIESO.  I  protest !  How  am  I  to  profit  by  the  trans- 
action? Do  you  suppose  that  I  shall  sell  a  single  copy  of 
this  libel  now  that  I  know  that  it  is  offensive  to  my  par- 
ticular, my  excellent  friend,  Don  Florencio,  and  to  his  re- 
spected wife? 

FLORENCIO.  Thanks,  friend  Valdivieso,  thanks  for  that. 

VALDIVIESO.  I  shall  burn  the  edition,  although  you  can 
imagine  what  that  will  cost. 

FLORENCIO.  The  loss  will  be  mine.  It  will  be  at  my  ex- 
pense. 

CASALONGA.  What  did  I  tell  you?  Florencio  will  pay. 
What  are  you  complaining  about? — If  I  were  in  your  place, 
though,  I'd  be  hanged  if  I  would  give  the  man  one  penny. 

VALDIVIESO.  What  ?     When  you  have  collected  spot  cash  ? 

CASALONGA.  You  don't  call  that  collecting?  Not  at  that 
discount.  The  paper  was  worth  more. 

FLORENCIO.  The  impudence  of  the  thing  was  worth  more 
than  the  paper. 

CASALONGA.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Really,  I  cannot  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  be  angry  with  you.  You  are  too  clever !  But  what 
was  I  to  do?  I  had  to  find  some  outlet  for  my  activities. 
Are  you  going  to  kill  me? 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  29 

FLORENCIO.  I  have  made  my  arrangements.  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  will  submit  meekly  to  such  an  indignity?  If 
you  refuse  to  fight,  I  will  hale  you  before  the  courts. 

CASALONGA.  Drop  that  tragic  tone.  A  duel?  Between 
us  ?  Over  what  ?  Because  the  wife  of  a  friend — who  at  the 
same  time  happens  to  be  your  wife — has  been  intimate  with 
you  ?  Suppose  it  had  been  with  some  one  else ! 

FLORENCIO.  That  supposition  is  improper. 

CASALONGA.  You  are  the  first  man  I  ever  heard  of  who  was 
offended  because  it  was  said  that  he  had  been  intimate  with 
his  wife.  The  thing  is  preposterous.  How  are  we  ever 
going  to  fight  over  it? 

ZURITA.  I  can  see  his  point  of  view. 

FLORENCIO.  Patricio  could  never  have  written  those  let- 
ters, much  less  to  you. 

CASALONGA.  Talk  as  much  as  you  like,  the  letters  are 
genuine.  Although  it  may  have  been  foolish  of  Patricio  to 
have  written  them — that  is  a  debatable  question.  I  published 
them  so  as  to  enliven  the  book.  A  little  harmless  suggestion 
— people  look  for  it;  it  adds  spice.  Aside  from  that,  what 
motive  could  I  have  had  for  dragging  you  into  it? 

FLORENCIO.  I  admire  your  frankness  at  least. 

ZURITA.  What  do  you  propose  to  do  with  this  man? 

FLORENCIO.  What  do  you  propose? 

ASALONGA.  You  know  I  was  always  fond  of  you.     You 
are  a  man  of  ability. 

FLORENCIO.  Thanks. 

CASALONGA.  You  have  more  ability  than  Patricio  had. 
He  was  a  worthy  soul,  no  doubt,  but  between  us,  who  were 
in  the  secret,  an  utter  blockhead. 

FLORENCIO.  Hardly  that. 

CASALONGA.  I  need  not  tell  you  what  reputations  amount 


CO 


30  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

to  in  this  country.  If  he  had  had  your  brains,  your  tran- 
scendent ability.  . .  . 

FLORENCIO.  How  can  I  stop  this  man  from  talking? 

CASALONGA.  You  have  always  been  too  modest  in  my 
opinion;  you  have  remained  in  the  background  in  order  to 
give  him  a  chance  to  shine,  to  attract  attention.  Everybody 
knows  that  his  best  speeches  were  written  by  you. 

FLORENCIO.  You  have  no  right  to  betray  my  confidence. 

CASALONGA.  Yes,  gentlemen,  it  is  only  just  that  you 
should  know.  The  real  brains  belonged  to  this  man,  he  is  the 
one  who  should  have  had  the  statue.  As  a  friend  he  is  won- 
derful, unique ! 

FLORENCIO.  How  am  I  going  to  fight  with  this  man? 

CASALONGA.  I  will  give  out  a  statement  at  once — for  public 
consumption — declaring  that  the  letters  are  forgeries — or 
whatever  you  think  best;  as  it  appeals  to  you.  Fix  it  up 
for  yourself.  It  is  of  no  consequence  anyhow.  I  am  above 
this  sort  of  thing.  I  should  be  sorry,  however,  to  see  this 
fellow  receive  more  than  his  due,  which  is  two  reals  a  copy, 
or  what  he  paid  me. 

VALDIVIESO.  I  cannot  permit  you  to  meddle  in  my  affairs. 
You  are  a  rogue  and  a  cheat. 

CASALONGA.  A  rogue  and  a  cheat?  In  that  case  you  are 
the  one  I  will  fight  with.  You  are  no  friend  of  mine.  You 
are  an  exploiter  of  other  men's  brains. 

VALDIVIESO.  You  are  willing  to  fight  with  me,  are  you — a 
respectable  man,  the  father  of  a  family?  After  swindling 
me  out  of  my  money ! 

CASALONGA.  Swindling?  That  is  no  language  to  use  in 
this  house. 

VALDIVIESO.  I  use  it  where  I  like. 

FLORENCIO.  Gentlemen,  gentlemen !  This  is  my  house, 
this  is  the  house  of  my  wife ! 


31 

ZURITA.  Valdivieso! 

CASALONGA.  [To  FLORENCIO]  I  choose  you  for  my  second. 
And  you  too,  my  friend — what  is  your  name? 

VALDIVIESO.  But  will  you  listen  to  him?  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  will  fight  with  this  rascal,  with  the  first  knave 
who  happens  along?  I,  the  father  of  a  family? 

CASALONGA.  I  cannot  accept  your  explanation.  My 
friends  will  confer  with  yours  and  apprise  us  as  to  the  de- 
tails. Have  everything  ready  for  this  afternoon. 

VALDIVIESO.  Do  you  stand  here  and  sanction  this  non- 
sense? You  cannot  believe  one  word  that  he  says.  No 
doubt  it  would  be  convenient  for  you  to  retire  and  use  me 
as  a  Turk's  head  to  receive  all  the  blows,  when  you  are  the 
one  who  ought  to  fight ! 

FLORENCIO.  Friend 'Valdivieso,  I  cannot  permit  reflections 
upon  my  conduct  from  you.  After  all,  you  need  not  have 
purchased  the  book,  which  you  did  for  money,  knowing  that 
it  was  improper,  since  it  contained  matter  which  was  offen- 
sive to  me. 

VALDIVIESO.  Are  you  speaking  in  earnest  ? 

FLORENCIO.  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life. 

CASALONGA.  Yes,  sir,  and  it  is  high  time  for  us  all  to  realize 
that  it  is  in  earnest.  It  was  all  your  fault.  Nobody  buys 
without  sampling  the  wares.  It  was  your  business  to  have 
pointed  out  to  me  the  indiscretion  I  was  about  to  commit. 
[To  FLORENCIO]  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  withdraw  if  you 
wish  to  fight  him,  to  yield  my  place  as  the  aggrieved  party 
to  you.  I  should  be  delighted  to  act  as  one  of  your  seconds, 
with  our  good  friend  here — what  is  your  name? 

ZURITA.  Zurita. 

CASALONGA.  My  good  friend  Zurita. 

VALDIVIESO.  Am  I  losing  my  mind  ?  This  is  a  trap  which 
you  have  set  for  me,  a  despicable  trap ! 


32  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

FLORENCIO.  Friend  Valdivieso,  I  cannot  tolerate  these  re- 
flections. I  am  incapable  of  setting  a  trap. 

ZURITA.  Ah!  And  so  am  I!  When  you  entered  this 
house  you  were  familiar  with  its  reputation. 

CASALONGA.  You  have  forgotten  with  whom  you  are 
speaking. 

VALDIVIESO.  Nonsense !  This  is  too  much.  I  wash  my 
hands  of  the  whole  business.  Is  this  the  spirit  in  which  my 
advances  are  received  ?  What  I  will  do  now  is  sell  the  book 
— and  if  I  can't  sell  it,  I  will  give  it  away !  Everybody  can 
read  it  then — and  they  can  talk  as  much  as  they  want  to. 
This  is  the  end !  I  am  through. 

FLORENCIO.  Wait?  What  was  that?  I  warn  you  not  to 
sell  so  much  as  one  copy ! 

ZURITA.  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  did.  Take  care  not  to 
drag  me  into  it. 

CASALONGA.  Nor  me  either. 

VALDIVIESO.  Enough !  Do  as  you  see  fit — and  I  shall  do 
the  same.  This  is  the  end — the  absolute  end !  It  is  the 
finish !  [Rushes  out. 

FLORENCIO.  Stop  him ! 

CASALONGA.  It  won't  be  necessary.  I  shall  go  to  the  shop 
and  take  back  the  edition.  Whatever  you  intended  to  pay 
him  you  can  hand  directly  to  me.  I  am  your  friend;  besides 
I  need  the  money.  This  man  shall  not  get  the  best  of  me. 
Oh !  By  the  way,  what  are  you  doing  to-night  ?  Have 
dinner  with  me.  I  shall  expect  you  at  the  hotel.  Don't  for- 
get !  If  you  don't  show  up,  I  may  drop  in  myself  and  have 
dinner  with  you. 

FLORENCIO.  No !  •  What  would  my  wife  say  ?  She  has 
trouble  enough. 

CASALONGA.  Nonsense !  She  knows  me,  and  we  should 
have  a  good  laugh.  Is  she  as  charming,  as  good-looking,  as 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  33 

striking  as  ever?  I  am  keen  for  her.  I  don't  need  to  ask 
whether  she  is  happy.  Poor  Patricio  was  a  character !  What 
a  sight  he  was !  What  a  figure !  And  age  doubled  him  for 
good  measure.  I'll  look  in  on  you  later.  It  has  been  a  rare 
pleasure  this  time.  There  are  few  friends  like  you.  Come, 
shake  hands  !  I  am  touched ;  you  know  how  it  is.  See  you 
later !  If  I  don't  come  back,  I  have  killed  my  man  and  am 
in  jail  for  it.  Tell  your  wife.  If  I  can  help  out  in  any 
way ....  Good-by ,  my  friend — ah,  yes  !  Zurita.  I  have  a 
terrible  head  to-day.  See  you  later !  [Goes  out. 

FLORENCIO.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  equal  to  it?  I 
never  did,  and  I  knew  him  of  old.  But  he  has  made  progress. 

ZURITA.  His  assurance  is  fairly  epic. 

FLORENCIO.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  a  man  who 

takes  it  like  this  ?     You  cannot  kill  him  in  cold  blood 

CAROLINA  re-enters. 

FLORENCIO.  Ah!  Carolina!  Were  you  listening?  You 
heard  everything. 

CAROLINA.  Yes,  and  in  spite  of  it  I  think  he  is  fascinating. 

FLORENCIO.  Since  Carolina  feels  that  way  it  simplifies  the 
situation. 

ZURITA.  Why  not?  She  heard  the  compliments.  The 
man  is  irresistible. 

FLORENCIO.  Carolina,  it  comes  simply  to  this :  nobody,  at- 
taches any  importance  to  the  matter.  Only  two  or  three 
copies  have  been  sold. 

CAROLINA.  Yes,  but  one  of  them  was  to  my  sisters-in-law, 
which  is  the  same  as  if  they  had  sold  forty  thousand.  They 
will  tell  everybody. 

FLORENCIO.  They  were  doing  it  anyhow;  there  is  no  further 
cause  for  worry. 

CAROLINA.  At  all  events,  I  shall  not  attend  the  unveiling 
to-morrow,  and  you  ought  not  to  go  either. 


34  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

FLOBENCIO.  But  wife ! 

ZUBITA.  Ah!  The  unveiling....  I  had  forgotten  to 
mention  it. 

CAROLINA.  To  mention  what? 

ZURITA.  It  has  been  postponed. 

FLORENCIO.    How  ? 

ZURITA.  The  committee  became  nervous  at  the  last  mo- 
ment over  the  protests  against  the  nudes.  After  seeing  the 
photographs  many  ladies  declined  to  participate.  At  last 
the  sculptor  was  convinced,  and  he  has  consented  to  with- 
draw the  statue  of  Truth  altogether,  and  to  put  a  tunic  upon 
Industry,  while  Commerce  is  to  have  a  bathing-suit. 

CAROLINA.  That  will  be  splendid ! 

ZURITA.  All  this,  however,  will  require  several  days,  and 
by  that  time  everything  will  have  been  forgotten. 

CASALONGA  re-enters  with  the  books.  He  is  completely 
out  of  breath  and  drops  them  suddenly  upon  the  floor, 
where  they  raise  a  tremendous  cloud  of  dust. 

CAROLINA.  Ay  I 

CASALONGA.  I  had  you  scared !  At  your  service .... 
Here  is  the  entire  edition.  I  returned  him  his  thousand 
pesetas — I  declined  to  make  it  another  penny.  I  told  you 
that  would  be  all  that  was  necessary.  I  am  a  man  of  my 
word.  Now  it  is  up  to  you.  No  more  could  be  asked !  I 
am  your  friend  and  have  said  enough.  J.  shall  have  to  find 
some  other  outlet  for  my  activities.  That  will  be  all  for 
to-day. 

FLORENCIO.  I  will  give  you  two  thousand  pesetas.  But 
beware  of  a  second  edition  ! 

CASALONGA.  Don't  begin  to  worry  so  soon.  With  this 
money  I  shall  have  enough  to  be  decent  at  least — at  least  for 
two  months.  You  know  me,  senora.  I  am  Florencio's  most 
intimate  friend,  as  I  was  Patricio's  most  intimate  friend, 


HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND  35 

which  is  to  say  one  of  the  most  intimate  friends  you  ever 
had. 

CAROLINA.  Yes,  I  remember. 

CASALONGA.  But  I  have  changed  since  that  time. 

FLORENCIO.  Not  a  bit  of  it !    He  is  just  the  same. 

CASALONGA.  YeSiJ.hejibange-4sJii.you.  You  are  the  same, 
only  you  have  improved.  [To  CAROLINA]  I  am  amazed  at  the 
opulence  of  your  beauty,  which  a  fortunate  marriage  has 
greatly  enhanced.  Have  you  any  children  ? 

CAROLINA.  No .... 

CASALONGA.  You  are  going  to  have  some. 

FLORENCIO.  Flatterer! 
— CASALONGA.  But  I  must  leave  before  night:  there  is  noth- 


ing for  me  to  do  here. 

FLORENCIO.  No,  you  have  attended  to  everything.  I  shall 
send  it  after  you  to  the  hotel. 

CASALONGA.  Add  a  little  while  you  are  about  it  to  cover 
expenses — by  way  of  a  finishing  touch. 

FLORENCIO.  Oh,  very  well ! 

—CASALONGA.  That  will  be  all.  Senora,  if  I  can  be  of  ser- 
vice....  My  good  Zurita !  Friend  Florencio!  Before  I 
die  I  hope  to  see  you  again. 

FLORENCIO.  Yes !  Unless  I  die  first. 

CASALONGA.  I  know  how  you  feel.  You  take  the  worst 
end  for  yourself. 

FLORENCIO.  Allow  me  that  consolation. 

CASALONGA.  God  be  with  you,  my  friend.  Adios!  Rest 
in  peace.  How  different  are  our  fates !  Life  to  you  is  sweet. 
You  have  everything — love,  riches,  satisfaction.  While  I — 
I  laugh  through  my  tears  !  [Goes  out. 

CAROLINA.  That  cost  you  money. 

FLORENCIO.  What  else  did  you  expect?  I  gave  up  to 
avoid  a  scandal  upon  your  account.  I  could  see  that  you 


36  HIS  WIDOW'S  HUSBAND 

were  nervous.  I  would  have  fought  if  I  could  have  had  my 
way;  I  would  have  carried  matters  to  the  last  extreme. 
Zurita  will  tell  you  so. 

CAROLINA.  I  always  said  that  monument  would  cost  us 
dear. 

FLORENCIO.  Obviously !  Two  thousand  pesetas  now,  be- 
sides the  twenty-five  thousand  which  I  subscribed  for  the 
monument,  to  say  nothing  of  my  uniform  as  Chief  of  Staff 
which  I  had  ordered  for  the  unveiling.  Then  there  are  the 
banquets  to  the  delegates .... 

ZURITA.  Glory  is  always  more  expensive  than  it  is  worth. 

FLORENCIO.  It  is  not  safe  to  be  famous  even  at  second 
hand. 

CAROLINA.  But  you  are  not  sorry  ? 

FLORENCIO.  No,  my  Carolina,  the  glory  of  being  your 
husband  far  outweighs  in  my  eyes  the  disadvantages  of  being 
the  husband  of  his  widow. 

Curtain 


THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST 

COMEDY  IN  A  PROLOGUE  AND 
THREE  ACTS 

FIRST  PRESENTED  AT  THE  TEATRO  LARA,  MADRID,  ON  THE 
EVENING  OF  THE  NINTH  OF  DECEMBER,  1907 


CHARACTERS 

DONA  SIRENA 

SILVIA 

THE  WIFE  OP  POLJCHINELLE 

COLUMBINE 

LAUBA 

RlSELA 

LEANDEK 

CRISPIN 

THE  DOCTOR 

POLICHINELLE 

HARLEQUIN 

THE  CAPTAIN 

PANTALOON 

THE  INNKEEPER 

THE  SECRETARY 

1st  and  2d  SERVANTS  AT  THE  INN 

1st  and  2d  CONSTABLES 

The  action  takes  place  in  an  imaginary  country  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Seventeenth  Century 


TO    RAFAEL    GASSET 


THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST 
PROLOGUE 

Spoken  by  CRISPIN 

A  conventional  drop  at  the  front,  having  a  door  in  the 
middle,  curtained. 

Here  you  have  the  mummer  of  the  antique  farce  who  en- 
livened in  the  country  inns  the  hard-earned  leisure  of  the 
carter,  who  made  the  simple  rustics  gape  with  wonder  in  the 
square  of  every  rural  town  and  village,  who  in  the  populous 
cities  drew  about  him  great  bewildering  assemblages,  as  in 
Paris  where  Tabarin  set  up  his  scaffold  on  the  Pont-Neuf  and 
challenged  the  attention  of  the  passers-by,  from  the  learned 
doctor  pausing  a  moment  on  his  solemn  errand  to  smooth 
out  the  wrinkles  on  his  brow  at  some  merry  quip  of  old-time 
farce,  to  the  light-hearted  cutpurse  who  there  whiled  away 
his  hours  of  ease  as  he  cheated  his  hunger  with  a  smile,  to 
prelate  and  noble  dame  and  great  grandee  in  stately  carriages, 
soldier  and  merchant  and  student  and  maid.  Men  of  every 
rank  and  condition  shared  in  the  rejoicing — men  who  were 
never  brought  together  in  any  other  way — the  grave  laugh- 
ing to  see  the  laughter  of  the  gay  rather  than  at  the  wit  of 
the  farce,  the  wise  with  the  foolish,  the  poor  with  the  rich, 
so  staid  and  formal  in  their  ordinary  aspect,  and  the  rich  to 
see  the  poor  laugh,  their  consciences  a  little  easier  at  the 
thought:  "Even  the  poor  can  smile."  For  nothing  Is  so 
contagious  as  the  sympathy  of  a  smile. 

Sometimes  our  humble  farce  mounted  up  to  Princes'  Pal- 
41 


42  THE   BONDS   OF   INTEREST  PROLOGUE 

aces  on  the  whims  of  the  mighty  and  the  great;  yet  there 
its  rogueries  were  not  less  free.  It  was  the  common  heritage 
of  great  and  small.  Its  rude  jests,  its  sharp  and  biting  sen- 
tences it  took  from  the  people,  from  that  lowly  wisdom  of 
the  poor  which  knows  how  to  suffer  and  bear  all,  and  which 
was  softened  in  those  days  by  resignation  in  men  who  did 
not  expect  too  much  of  the  world  and  so  were  able  to  laugh 
at  the  world  without  bitterness  and  without  hate. 

From  its  humble  origins  Lope  de  Rueda  and  Shakespere 
and  Moliere  lifted  it  up,  bestowing  upon  it  high  patents  of 
nobility,  and  like  enamoured  princes  of  the  fairy- tales,  ele- 
vated poor  Cinderella  to  the  topmost  thrones  of  Poetry  and 
of  Art.  But  our  farce  to-night  cannot  claim  such  distin- 
guished lineage,  contrived  for  your  amusement  by  the  inquir- 
ing spirit  of  a  restless  poet  of  to-day. 

This  is  a  little  play  of  puppets,  impossible  in  theme,  with- 
out any  reality  at  all.  You  will  soon  see  how  everything 
happens  in  it  that  could  never  happen,  how  its  personages 
are  not  real  men  and  women,  nor  the  shadows  of  them,  but 
dolls  or  marionettes  of  paste  and  cardboard,  moving  upon 
wires  which  are  visible  even  in  a  little  light  and  to  the  dim- 
mest eye.  They  are  the  grotesque  masks  of  the  Italian 
Commedia  dett'Arte,  not  as  boisterous  as  they  once  were, 
because  they  have  aged  with  the  years  and  have  been  able 
to  think  much  in  so  long  a  time.  The  author  is  aware  that 
so  primitive  a  spectacle  is  unworthy  of  the  culture  of  these 
days;  he  throws  himself  upon  your  courtesy  and  upon  your 
goodness  of  heart.  He  only  asks  that  you  should  make 
yourselves  as  young  as  possible.  The  world  has  grown  old, 
but  art  never  can  reconcile  itself  to  growing  old,  and  so,  to 
seem  young  again,  it  descends  to  these  fripperies.  And  that 
is  the  reason  that  these  outworn  puppets  have  presumed  to 
come  to  amuse  you  to-night  with  their  child's  play. 


THE    FIRST    ACT 

A  plaza  in  a  city.  The  fagade  of  an  Inn  is  at  the  right,  having 
a  practicable  door,  with  a  knocker  upon  it.  Above  the  door 
w  a  sign  which  reads  IXNT. 

LEANDER  and  CRISPIN  enter  from  the  left. 

LEANDER.  This  must  be  a  very  great  city,  Crispin.  Its 
riches  and  its  power  appear  in  everything. 

CRISPIN.  Yes,  there  are  two  cities.  Pray  God  that  we 
have  chanced  upon  the  better  one ! 

LEANDER.  Two  cities  do  you  say,  Crispin  ?  Ah !  Now  I 
understand — an  old  city  and  a  new  city,  one  on  either  side  of 
the  river. 

CRISPIN.  What  has  the  river  to  do  with  it,  or  newness  or 
age  ?  I  say  two  cities  just  as  there  are  in  every  city  in  the 
world;  one  for  people  who  arrive  with  money  and  the  other 
for  persons  who  arrive  like  us. 

LEANDER.  We  are  lucky  to  have  arrived  at  all  without 
falling  into  the  hands  of  Justice.  I  should  be  heartily  glad 
to  stop  here  awhile  and  rest  myself,  for  I  am  tired  of  this 
running  about  the  world  so  continually. 

CRISPIN.  Not  I!  No,  it  is  the  natural  condition  of  the 
free-born  subjects  of  the  Kingdom  of  Roguery,  of  whom  am 
I,  not  to  remain  seated  long  in  any  one  place,  unless  it  be 
through  compulsion,  as  to  say  in  the  galleys,  where,  believe 
me,  they  are  very  hard  seats.  But  now  since  we  have  hap- 
pened upon  this  city,  and  to  all  appearances  it  is  a  well  for- 
tified and  provisioned  one,  let  us  like  prudent  captains  map 
out  our  plan  of  battle  beforehand,  if  we  are  to  conquer  it 
with  any  advantage  to  ourselves. 

43 


44  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST          ACT  i 

LEANDER.  A  pretty  army  we  shall  make  to  besiege  it. 

CRISPIN.  We  are  men  and  we  have  to  do  with  men. 

LEANDER.  All  our  wealth  is  on  our  backs.  You  were  not 
willing  to  take  off  these  clothes  and  sell  them,  when  by 
doing  so  we  could  easily  have  obtained  money. 

CRISPIN.  I  would  sooner  take  off  my  skin  than  my  good 
clothes.  As  the  world  goes  nothing  is  so  important  as  ap- 
pearances, and  the  clothes,  as  you  must  admit,  are  the  first 
things  to  appear. 

LEANDER.  What  are  we  going  to  do,  Crispin  ?  Hunger 
and  fatigue  have  been  too  much  for  me.  I  am  overcome; 
I  cannot  talk. 

CRISPIN.  There  is  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  take  advan- 
tage of  our  talents  and  our  effrontery,  for  without  effrontery 
talents  are  of  no  use.  The  best  thing,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
will  be  for  you  to  talk  as  little  as  possible,  but  be  very  im- 
pressive when  you  do,  and  put  on  the  airs  of  a  gentleman  of 
quality.  From  time  to  time  then  I  will  permit  you  to  strike 
me  across  the  back.  When  anybody  asks  you  a  question, 
reply  mysteriously  and  if  you  open  your  mouth  upon  your 
own  account,  be  sure  that  it  is  with  dignity,  as  if  you  were 
pronouncing  sentence.  You  are  young;  you  have  a  fine 
presence.  Until  now  you  have  known  only  how  to  dissipate 
your  resources;  this  is  the  time  for  you  to  begin  to  profit 
by  them.  Put  yourself  in  my  hands.  There  is  nothing  so 
useful  to  a  man  as  to  have  some  one  always  at  his  heels  to 
point  out  his  merits,  for  modesty  in  one's  self  is  imbecility, 
while  self-praise  is  madness,  and  so  between  the  two  we 
come  into  disfavor  with  the  world.  Men  are  like  merchan- 
dise; they  are  worth  more  or  less  according  to  the  skill  of 
the  salesman  who  markets  them.  I  tell  you,  though  you 
were  but  muddy  glass,  I  will  so  contrive  that  in  my  hands 
you  shall  pass  for  pure  diamond.  And  now  let  us  knock  at 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  45 

the  door  of  this  inn,  for  surely  it  is  the  proper  thing  to  have 
lodgings  on  the  main  square. 

LEANDER.  You  say  at  this  inn?  But  how  are  we  going 
to  pay? 

CRISPIN.  If  we  are  to  be  stopped  by  a  little  thing  like 
that  then  we  had  better  search  out  an  asylum  or  an  alms- 
house  or  else  beg  on  the  streets,  if  so  be  that  you  incline  to 
virtue.  Or  if  to  force,  then  back  to  the  highway  and  cut  the 
throat  of  the  first  passer-by.  If  we  are  to  live  upon  our 
means,  strictly  speaking,  we  have  no  other  means  to  live. 

LEANDER.  I  have  letters  of  introduction  to  persons  of 
importance  in  this  city,  who  will  be  able  to  lend  us  aid. 

CRISPIN.  Then  tear  those  letters  up;  never  think  of  such 
baseness  again !  Introduce  yourself  to  no  man  when  you 
are  in  need.  Those  would  be  pretty  letters  of  credit  indeed ! 
To-day  you  will  be  received  with  the  greatest  courtesy; 
they  will  tell  you  that  their  houses  and  their  persons  are  to 
be  considered  as  yours.  The  next  time  you  call,  the  ser- 
vant will  tell  you  that  his  master  is  not  at  home.  No,  he  is 
not  expected  soon ....  and  -  at  the  next  visit  nobody  will 
trouble  so  much  as  to  open  the  door.  This  is  a  world  of 
giving  and  taking,  a  shop,  a  mart,  a  place  of  exchange,  and 
before  you  ask  you  have  to  offer. 

LEANDER.  But  what  can  I  offer  when  I  have  nothing  ? 

CRISPIN.  How  low  an  opinion  you  must  have  of  yourself ! 
Is  a  man  in  himself,  then,  worth  nothing?  A  man  may  be 
a  soldier,  and  by  his  valor  win  great  victories.  He  may  be  a 
husband  or  a  lover,  and  with  love's  sweet,  oblivious  medicine, 
restore  some  noble  dame  to  health,  or  some  damsel  of  high 
degree,  who  has  been  pining  away  through  melancholy.  He 
may  be  the  servant  of  some  mighty  and  powerful  lord,  who 
becomes  attached  to  him  and  raises  him  up  through  his  favor, 
and  he  may  be  so  many  other  things  besides  that  I  have  not 


46  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST          ACT  i 

the  breath  even  to  begin  to  run  them  over.  When  one 
wants  to  climb,  why  any  stair  will  do. 

LEANDEB.  But  if  I  have  not  even  that  stair? 

CRISPIN.  Then  accept  my  shoulders,  and  I  will  lift  you 
up.  I  offer  you  the  top. 

LEANDEB.  And  if  we  both  fall  down  upon  the  ground? 

CRISPIN.  God  grant  that  it  may  be  soft !  [Knocking  at  the 
inn-door]  Hello !  Ho,  within  there !  Hello,  I  say,  in  the 
inn  !  Devil  of  an  innkeeper  !  Does  no  one  answer  ?  What 
sort  of  a  tavern  is  this  ? 

LEANDER.  Why  are  you  making  all  this  noise  when  as  yet 
you  have  scarcely  begun  to  call  ? 

CRISPIN.  Because  it  is  monstrous  that  they  should  make 
us  wait  like  this !  [Calling  again  more  loudly]  Hello  within ! 
Who's  there,  I  say  ?  Hello  in  the  house !  Hello,  you  thou- 
sand devils ! 

INNKEEPER.  [Within]  Who's  there?  What  knocking  and 
what  shouting  at  my  door !  Is  this  the  way  to  stand  and 
wait  ?  Out,  I  say  ! 

CRISPIN.  It  is  too  much !  And  now  he  will  tell  us  that 
this  dilapidated  old  tavern  is  a  fit  lodging  for  a  gentleman. 
Tlie  INNKEEPER  and  Two  SEBVANTS  come  out  of  the 
Inn. 

INNKEEPER.  Softly,  sirs,  softly;  for  this  is  not  a  tavern 
but  an  inn,  and  great  gentlemen  have  been  lodged  in  this 
house. 

CRISPIN.  I  would  like  to  have  seen  those  same  great  gen- 
tlemen— gentle,  a  little  more  or  less.  What?  It  is  easy 
enough  to  see  by  these  rascals  that  they  are  not  accustomed 
to  waiting  on  persons  of  quality.  They  stand  there  like 
blockheads  without  running  to  do  our  service. 

INNKEEPER.  My  life !    But  you  are  impertinent ! 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST  47 

LEANDER.  My  servant  is  a  little  forward,  perhaps.  You 
will  find  him  somewhat  hasty  in  his  temper.  However,  your 
inn  will  be  good  enough  for  the  brief  time  that  we  shall  be 
able  to  remain  in  it.  Prepare  an  apartment  for  me  and 
another  for  my  servant,  and  let  us  spare  these  idle  words. 

INNKEEPER.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  If  you  had  only 
spoken  before.  ...  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  somehow 
gentlemen  are  always  so  much  more  polite  than  their  ser- 
vants. 

CRISPIN.  The  fact  is  my  master  is  so  good-natured  that 
he  will  put  up  with  anything.  But  I  know  what  is  proper 
for  his  service,  and  I  have  no  mind  to  wink  at  villainy.  Lead 
us  to  our  apartments. 

INNKEEPER.  But  where  is  your  luggage? 

CRISPIN.  Do  you  suppose  that  we  are  carrying  our  lug- 
gage with  us  on  our  backs,  like  a  soldier's  knapsack,  or 
trundling  it  like  students'  bundles  in  our  hands  ?  Know  that 
my  master  has  eight  carts  coming  after  him,  which  will  ar- 
rive if  he  stays  here  long  enough,  and  at  that  he  will  only 
remain  for  the  time  which  is  absolutely  necessary  to  conclude 
the  secret  mission  with  which  he  has  been  intrusted  in  this 
city. 

LEANDER.  Will  you  be  silent  and  hold  your  tongue? 
What  secret  is  it  possible  to  keep  with  you?  If  I  am  dis- 
covered through  your  impudence,  through  your  misguided 
talk ....  [He  threatens  and  strikes  CRISPIN  with  his  sword. 

CRISPIN.  Help  !     He  is  killing  me  !  [Running. 

INNKEEPER.  [Interposing  between  LEANDER  and  CRISPIN] 
Hold,  sir ! 

LEANDER.  Let  me  chastise  him !  The  most  intolerable  of 
vices  is  this  desire  to  talk. 

INNKEEPER.  Do  not  beat  him,  sir ! 


48  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST          ACT  i 

LEANDER.  Let  me  at  him!  Let  me  at  him!  Will  the 
slave  never  learn  ? 

As  he  is  about  to  strike  CRISPIN,  CRISPIN  runs  and  hides 
himself  behind  the  INNKEEPER,  wfio  receives  all  the 
blows. 

CRISPIN.  [Crying  out]  Ay !    Ay !    Ay ! 

INNKEEPER.  Ay,  say  I !    For  I  got  all  the  blows ! 

LEANDER.  [To  CRISPIN]  Now  you  see  what  you  have 
done.  This  poor  man  has  received  all  the  blows.  Down ! 
Down  !  Beg  his  pardon ! 

INNKEEPER.  It  will  not  be  necessary,  sir.  I  pardon  him 
willingly.  [To  the  servants]  What  are  you  doing  standing 
there  ?  Prepare  the  rooms  in  which  the  Emperor  of  Mantua 
is  accustomed  to  reside  when  he  is  stopping  in  this  house, 
and  let  dinner  be  made  ready  for  these  gentlemen. 

CRISPIN.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  if  I  saw  to  that  my- 
self, otherwise  they  may  delay  and  spoil  everything,  and 
commit  a  thousand  blunders  for  which  I  shall  be  held  re- 
sponsible, for  my  master,  as  you  see,  is  not  a  man  to  submit 
to  insult.  I  am  with  you,  sirrahs — and  remember  who  it 
is  you  serve,  for  the  greatest  good  fortune  or  the  direst 
calamity  in  the  world  enters  at  this  moment  behind  you 
through  these  doors. 

The  servants,  followed  by  CRISPIN,  re-enter  the  Inn. 

INNKEEPER.  [To  LEANDER]  Will  you  be  good  enough  to 
let  me  have  your  name,  where  you  come  from,  and  the  busi- 
ness which  brings  you  to  this  city? 

LEANDER.  [Seeing  CRISPIN  re-enter  from  the  Inn]  My  ser- 
vant will  let  you 'have  them.  Learn  not  to  bother  me  with 
foolish  questions.  [He  goes  into  the  Inn. 

CRISPIN.  What  have  you  done  now  ?  You  have  not  dared 
to  question  my  master?  If  you  want  to  keep  him  so  much 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  49 

as  another  hour  in  your  house,  never  speak  to  him  again. 
No !    Not  one  word ! 

INNKEEPER.  But  the  laws  are  very  strict.  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  the  questions  should  be  answered.  The  law 
in  this  city 

CRISPIN.  Never  mention  the  law  to  my  master !  Silence  ! 
Silence !  And  for  shame !  You  do  not  know  whom  you 
have  in  your  house;  no,  and  if  you  did,  you  would  not  be 
wasting  your  time  on  these  impertinences. 

INNKEEPER.  But  am  I  not  to  be  told  at  least 

CRISPIN.  Bolt  of  Heaven!  Silence!  Or  I  will  call  my 
master,  and  he  will  tell  you  whatever  he  sees  fit — and  then 
you  will  not  understand.  Take  care  !  Look  to  it  that  he 
wants  for  nothing !  Wait  on  him  with  every  one  of  your 
five  senses,  or  you  will  have  good  reason  to  regret  it !  Have 
you  no  knowledge  of  men?  Can't  you  read  character? 
Don't  you  see  who  my  master  is?  What?  How  is  that? 
What  do  you  say  ?  No  reply  ? . . . .  Come !  Come ! . . . . 
In!.... 

He  goes  into  the  Inn,  pushing  the  INNKEEPER  before 
him.  The  CAPTAIN  and  HARLEQUIN  enter  from  the 
left. 

HARLEQUIN.  As  we  return  from  the  fields  which  surround 
this  fair  city — and  beyond  a  doubt  they  are  the  best  part 
of  it — it  seems  that  without  intending  it  we  have  happened 
upon  this  Inn.  What  a  creature  of  habit  is  man !  And 
surely  it  is  a  vile  habit,  this  being  obliged  to  eat  every  day. 

CAPTAIN.  The  sweet  music  of  your  verses  had  quite  de- 
prived me  of  all  thought.  Delightful  privilege  of  the  poet ! 

HARLEQUIN.  Which  does  not  prevent  him  from  being 
equally  lacking  upon  his  own  part.  The  poet  wants  every- 
thing. I  approach  this  Inn  with  fear.  Will  they  consent  to 
trust  us  to-day?  If  not,  we  must  rely  upon  your  sword. 


50  THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST          ACTI 

CAPTAIN.  My  sword  ?  The  soldier's  sword,  like  the  poet's 
lyre,  is  little  valued  in  this  city  of  merchants  and  traders. 
We  have  fallen  upon  evil  days. 

HARLEQUIN.  We  have.  Sublime  poesy,  which  sings  of 
great  and  glorious  exploits,  is  no  more.  It  is  equally  profit- 
less to  offer  your  genius  to  the  great  to  praise  or  to  lampoon 
them.  Flattery  and  satire  are  both  alike  to  them.  They 
neither  thank  you  for  the  one  nor  fear  the  other,  nor  do  they 
read  them.  Aretino  himself  would  have  starved  to  death 
in  these  days. 

CAPTAIN.  But  tell  me,  how  is  it  with  us?  What  is  the 
position  of  the  soldier?  Because  we  were  defeated  in  the 
late  wars — more  through  these  base  traffickers  who  govern 
us  and  send  us  to  defend  their  interests  without  enthusiasm 
and  without  arms,  than  through  any  power  of  the  enemy,  as 
if  a  man  could  fight  with  his  whole  heart  for  what  he  did  not 
love — defeated  by  these  traffickers  who  did  not  contribute 
so  much  as  a  single  soldier  to  our  ranks  or  lend  one  single 
penny  to  the  cause  but  upon  good  interest  and  yet  better 
security;  who,  as  soon  as  they  scented  danger  and  saw  their 
pockets  in  jeopardy,  threatened  to  make  common  cause 
with  the  enemy — now  they  blame  us,  they  abuse  us  and 
despise  us,  and  seek  to  economize  out  of  our  martial  misery, 
which  is  the  little  pay  that  they  give  us,  and  would  dismiss 
us  if  they  dared,  if  they  were  not  afraid  that  some  day  all 
those  whom  they  have  oppressed  by  their  tyranny  and  their 
greed  would  rise  up  and  turn  against  them.  And  woe  to 
them  when  they  do,  if  we  remember  that  day  on  which  side 
lie  duty  and  justice  ! 

HARLEQUIN.  When  that  day  comes  you  will  find  us  at 
your  side. 

CAPTAIN.  Poets  cannot  be  depended  upon  for  anything. 
Your  spirits  are  like  the  opal,  which  looks  different  in  every 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  51 

light.  You  are  in  an  ecstasy  to-day  over  what  is  about  to 
be  born,  and  to-morrow  over  what  is  in  the  last  stages  of 
dissolution.  You  have  a  special  weakness  for  falling  in  love 
with  ruins,  which  to  my  mind  is  a  melancholy  thing.  And 
since  as  a  rule  you  sit  up  all  night,  you  more  often  see  the 
sun  set  than  the  day  break;  you  know  more  about  going 
down  than  you  do  of  rising. 

HARLEQUIN.  That  cannot  truthfully  be  said  of  me.  I 
have  often  seen  the  sun  rise  when  I  had  no  place  to  lay  my 
head.  Besides,  how  can  you  expect  a  man  to  hail  the  day 
as  blithely  as  the  lark  when  it  always  breaks  so  unfortu- 
nately for  him? — What  say  you?  Shall  we  try  our  fate? 

CAPTAIN.  It  cannot  be  avoided.  Be  seated,  and  let  us 
await  what  our  good  host  has  in  store. 

HARLEQUIN.  [Calling  into  the  Inn]  Hello,  there!  Ho! 
Who  serves  to-day? 

The  INNKEEPER  enters. 

INNKEEPER.  Ah,  gentlemen !  Is  it  you  ?  I  am  sorry,  but 
there  is  no  entertainment  at  the  Inn  to-day. 

CAPTAIN.  And  for  what  reason,  if  it  is  proper  to  ask  the 
question  ? 

INNKEEPER.  A  proper  question  for  you  to  ask.  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  trust  nobody  for  what  is  consumed  in  this 
house  ? 

CAPTAIN.  Ah !  Is  that  the  reason  ?  And  are  we  not  per- 
sons of  credit,  who  are  to  be  trusted? 

INNKEEPER.  No;  not  by  me.  And  as  I  never  expect  to 
collect  anything,  you  have  had  all  that  courtesy  requires  out 
of  me  already.  This  being  the  case,  you  will  be  so  kind  as 
to  remove  yourselves  from  my  door. 

HARLEQUIN.  Do  you  imply  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
counted  between  us  but  money?  Are  all  the  praises  that 
we  have  lavished  upon  your  house  in  all  parts  of  the  conn- 


52  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST          ACT  i 

try  to  go  for  nothing?  I  have  even  composed  a  sonnet  in 
your  honor,  in  which  I  celebrate  the  virtues  of  your  stewed 
partridges  and  hare  pie  !  And  as  for  my  friend,  the  Captain, 
you  may  rest  assured  that  he  alone  would  uphold  the  reputa- 
tion of  your  hostelry  against  an  army.  Is  that  a  feat  which 
is  worth  nothing?  Is  there  nothing  but  clinking  of  coins  in 
your  ears  ? 

INNKEEPER.  I  am  not  in  a  jesting  mood;  it  does  not  suit 
my  humor.  I  want  none  of  your  sonnets,  nor  the  Captain's 
sword  either,  which  might  better  be  employed  in  other  busi- 
ness. 

CAPTAIN.  Name  of  Mars!    You  are  right.     Better  em- 
ployed upon  an  impudent  rascal's  back,  flaying  off  his  hide ! 
[Threatening  him  and  striking  him  with  his  sword. 

INNKEEPER.  [Crying  out]  What?  How  is  this?  You 
strike  me  ?  Help  !  Justice ! 

HARLEQUIN.  [Restraining  the  CAPTAIN]  Don't  run  your 
head  into  a  noose  on  account  of  such  a  worthless  scamp. 

CAPTAIN.  I  shall  kill  him.  [Striking  him. 

INNKEEPER.  Help!    Justice! 

The  Two  SERVANTS  enter,  running,  from  the  Inn. 

SERVANTS.  They  are  killing  our  master ! 

INNKEEPER.  Save  me ! 

CAPTAIN.  Not  one  of  them  shall  remain  alive ! 

INNKEEPER.  Will  no  one  come? 
CRISPIN  and  LEANDER  enter. 

LEANDER.  What  is  this  brawl? 

CRISPIN.  In  the  presence  of  my  master?  Before  the 
house  where  he  resides  ?  Is  there  no  rest  possible,  nor  quiet  ? 
Hold  !  Or  I  shall  summon  Justice.  Order !  Quiet ! 

INNKEEPER.  This  will  be  the  ruin  of  me!  With  such  a 
dignitary  stopping  in  my  house ! 

HARLEQUIN.  Who  is  he? 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  53 

INNKEEPER.  Never  dare  to  ask  me  his  name ! 

CAPTAIN.  Your  pardon,  sir,  if  we  have  disturbed  your 
rest,  but  this  rascally  villain 

INNKEEPER.  It  wasn't  my  fault,  my  lord.  These  un- 
blushing scoundrels 

CAPTAIN.  What?  I?  Unblushing — I?  I  can  bear  no 
more! 

CRISPIN.  Hold,  sir  Captain,  for  one  is  here  who  is  able 
to  redress  your  wrongs,  if  so  be  you  have  had  them  of  this 
man. 

INNKEEPER.  Consider,  sir,  that  for  more  than  a  month 
these  fellows  have  eaten  at  my  expense  without  the  pay- 
ment of  one  penny — without  so  much  as  the  thought  of  pay- 
ment; and  now  because  I  refuse  to  serve  them  to-day,  they 
turn  upon  me. 

HARLEQUIN.  I  do  not  turn  because  I  am  accustomed  to 
face  that  which  is  unpleasant. 

CAPTAIN.  Is  it  reasonable  that  a  soldier  should  not  be 
given  credit? 

HARLEQUIN.  Is  it  reasonable  that  a  sonnet  should  be  al- 
lowed to  pass  for  nothing,  although  it  is  written  with  the 
best  of  flourishes  in  praise  of  his  stewed  partridges  and  hare 
pies  ?  And  all  this  upon  credit  on  my  part,  for  I  have  never 
tasted  one  of  them,  but  only  his  eternal  mutton  and  potatoes. 

CRISPIN.  These  two  noble  gentlemen  are  right.  It  is  in- 
famous that  a  poet  and  a  soldier  should  be  denied  in  this 
manner. 

HARLEQUIN.  Ah,  sir !    You  have  a  great  soul ! 

CRISPIN.  No,  I  have  not — but  my  master,  who  is  here 
present.  Being  a  grand  gentleman,  there  is  nothing  which 
appeals  to  him  so  much  in  the  world  as  a  poet  or  a  soldier. 

LEANDER.  To  be  sure.     I  agree  with  you. 

CRISPIN.  You  need  have  no  doubt  but  that  while  he  re- 


54  THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST          ACT  i 

mains  in  this  city  you  will  be  treated  with  the  consideration 
you  deserve.  You  shall  want  for  nothing.  Whatever  ex- 
pense you  may  be  at  in  this  Inn,  is  to  be  placed  upon  his 
account. 

LEANDER.  To  be  sure.    I  agree  with  you. 

CRISPIN.  And  let  the  landlord  look  to  it  that  you  get 
your  deserts ! 

INNKEEPER.    Sir !  .... 

CRISPIN.  And  don't  be  so  stingy  with  those  partridges  and 
hairy  pies.  It  is  not  proper  that  a  poet  like  Signor  Harle- 
quin should  be  obliged  to  draw  upon  his  imagination  in  his 
descriptions  of  such  material  things. 

HARLEQUIN.  What?    Do  you  know  my  name? 

CRISPIN.  No,  I  do  not;  but  my  master,  being  such  a  great 
gentleman,  knows  all  the  poets  who  exist  or  who  ever  did 
exist  in  the  world,  provided  always  that  they  were  worthy 
of  the  name. 

LEANDER.     To  be  sure.     I  agree  with  you. 

CRISPIN.  And  none  of  them  is  more  famous  than  you, 
Signor  Harlequin.  Whenever  I  consider  that  you  have  not 
been  treated  here  with  the  respect  which  is  your  due 

INNKEEPER.  Your  pardon,  sir.  They  shall  be  made  wel- 
come, as  you  desire.  It  is  sufficient  that  you  should  be  their 
security. 

CAPTAIN.  Sir,  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  you  in  any  way. . . . 

CRISPIN.  What?  Is  it  a  small  service  to  be  permitted 
to  know  you?  O  glorious  Captain,  worthy  only  to  be  sung 
by  this  immortal  poet ! 

HARLEQUIN.  Sir! 

CAPTAIN.  Sir! 

HARLEQUIN.  So  my  verses  are  known  to  you? 

CRISPIN.  How?    Known?     And  if  known  would  it  ever 


ACT  i          THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  55 

be  possible  to  forget  them?     Is  not  that  wonderful  sonnet 
yours,  which  begins: 

"The  soft  hand  which  caresses  and  which  slays". . . . 

HARLEQUIN.  What? 
CRISPIN.  What? 

"The  soft  hand  which  caresses  and  which  slays". . . . 

It  does  not  say  what. 

HARLEQUIN.  Nonsense !    No,  that  is  not  my  sonnet. 

CRISPIN.  Then  it  is  worthy  of  being  yours.  And  you, 
Captain !  Who  is  not  familiar  with  your  marvellous  ex- 
ploits? Was  it  not  you  who,  alone,  with  twenty  men,  as- 
saulted the  Castle  of  the  Red  Rock  in  the  famous  battle  of 
the  Black  Field? 

CAPTAIN.  You  know,  then? 

CRISPIN.  How  ? . . . .  Do  I  know  ?  Oh !  Many  a  time, 
transported,  I  have  listened  to  my  master  recount  the  story 
of  your  prowess !  Twenty  men,  twenty,  and  you  in  front 
of  them,  and  in  front  of  you  the  castle.  Boom!  Boom! 
Boom !  from  the  castle,  shots  and  bombards,  darts  and  flam- 
ing squibs  and  boiling  oil !  And  the  twenty  men  all  stand- 
ing there  like  one  man,  and  you  in  front  of  them !  And  from 
above:  Boom!  Boom!  Boom!  And  the  roll  of  the  drums : 
Rum-a-tum-tum !  And  the  blare  of  the  trumpets:  Tara! 
Tara-ra !  And  you  all  the  while  there  alone  with  your 
sword :  Swish !  Swish !  Swish !  A  blow  here,  a  blow 

there.    Or  without  your  sword. . . .     Above,  below A 

head,  an  arm .... 

He  begins  to  rain  blows  about  him  right  and  left,  and  to 
kick,  using  his  fists,  his  feet,  and  the  fiat  side  of  his 
sword  indifferently. 


56  THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST          ACT  i 

SERVANTS.  Ay!    Ay!    Oh!    Oh! 

INNKEEPER.  Hold  !  Hold  !  Restrain  yourself !  You  don't 
know  what  you  are  doing.  You  are  all  excited.  ...  It  is 
as  if  the  battle  were  really  taking  place.  . . . 

CRISPIN.  How?  I  am  excited?  Know  that  I  always 
feel  in  my  breast  the  animus  belli,  the  thirst  for  war ! 

CAPTAIN.  It  seems  almost  as  if  you  must  have  been  there. 

CRISPIN.  To  hear  my  master  describe  it  is  the  same  as 
being  there.  No,  it  is  preferable  to  it.  And  is  such  a  sol- 
dier, the  hero  of  the  Red  Rocks  in  the  Black  Fields,  to  be 
insulted  thus  ?  Ah !  How  fortunate  it  is  that  my  master 
was  present,  and  that  important  business  had  brought  him 
to  this  city,  for  he  will  see  to  it  that  you  are  accorded 
the  consideration  you  deserve.  So  sublime  a  poet,  so  great 
a  captain!....  [To  the  servants]  Quick!  What  are  you 
doing  there?  Bring  the  best  food  that  you  have  in  the 
house  and  set  it  before  these  gentlemen.  And  first  of  all 
get  a  bottle  of  good  wine;  it  will  be  a  rare  pleasure  to  my 
master  to  drink  with  them.  He  will  esteem  himself  indeed 
fortunate.  Don't  stand  there  and  stare !  Quick !  Bestir 
yourselves ! 

INNKEEPER.  Run,  run !  I  go. ...  We  are  getting  some- 
thing out  of  this  after  all. 

The  INNKEEPER  and  the  Two  SERVANTS  run  into  the 
Inn. 

HARLEQUIN.  Ah,  sir !    How  can  we  ever  repay  you  ? 

CAPTAIN.  How  ?     We  certainly  never  shall .... 

CRISPIN.  Let  nobody  speak  of  payment  before  my  master. 
The  very  thought  gives  offense.  Be  seated,  be  seated.  My 
master,  who  has  wined  and  dined  so  many  princes,  so  many 
noblemen  at  his  table,  will  deem  this  an  even  greater  pleasure. 

LEANDER.  To  be  sure.     I  agree  with  you. 

CRISPIN.  My  master  is  not  a  man  of  many  words;  but,  as 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  57 

you  see,  the  few  that  he  does  speak,  are,  as  it  were,  fraught 
with  wisdom. 

HARLEQUIN.  His  grandeur  appears  in  everything. 

CAPTAIN.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  our 
drooping  spirits  to  find  a  noble  gentleman  like  you  who 
condescends  to  treat  us  with  consideration. 

CRISPIN.  Why,  this  is  nothing  to  what  he  will  condescend 
to  do !  I  know  that  my  master  will  never  rest  satisfied  to 
stop  at  such  a  trifle.  He  will  elevate  you  to  his  own  level, 
and  then  hold  you  up  beside  him  on  the  same  exalted  plane. 
He  is  just  that  kind  of  a  man. 

LEANDER.  [To  CRISPIN]  Don't  let  your  tongue  run  away 
with  you,  Crispin. 

CRISPIN.  My  master  is  averse  to  foolish  talk;  but  you  will 
soon  know  him  by  his  deeds. 

The  INNKEEPER  and  the  SERVANTS  re-enter,  bringing 
wine  and  provisions  which  they  place  upon  the  table. 

INNKEEPER.  Here  is  the  wine — and  the  dinner. 

CRISPIN.  Drink,  drink  and  eat !  See  that  they  want  for 
nothing;  my  master  is  agreeable.  He  will  be  responsible. 
His  responsibility  is  fortunately  not  in  question.  If  you 
would  like  anything  you  don't  see,  don't  hesitate  to  ask  for 
it.  My  master  will  order  it.  And  let  the  landlord  look  to 
it  that  it  is  brought  promptly,  for  verily  at  this  business,  he 
is  the  sorriest  kind  of  a  knave. 

INNKEEPER.  To  be  sure. . .  .1  don't  agree  with  you. 

CRISPIN.  Not  another  word !     You  insult  my  master. 

CAPTAIN.  Your  very  good  health ! 

LEANDER.  Your  good  healths,  gentlemen !  To  the  health 
of  the  greatest  poet  and  the  best  soldier  in  the  world ! 

HARLEQUIN.  To  the  health  of  the  noblest  gentleman ! 

CAPTAIN.  The  most  liberal  and  the  most  generous ! 

CRISPIN.  In  the  world !     Excuse  me,  but  I  must  drink 


58  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST          ACT  i 

too,  though  it  may  seem  presumptuous.  But  on  a  day  like 
this,  this  day  of  days,  which  has  brought  together  the  sublim- 
est  poet,  the  bravest  captain,  the  noblest  gentleman,  and  the 
most  faithful  servant  in  the  universe.  . .  .  [They  drink]  Now 
you  will  permit  my  master  to  retire.  The  important  busi- 
ness which  brings  him  to  the  city  admits  of  no  further  delay. 

LEANDER.  To  be  sure. 

CRISPIN.  You  will  not  fail  to  return  every  day  and  pre- 
sent your  respects  to  him? 

HARLEQUIN.  Every  hour !  And  I  am  going  to  bring  with 
me  all  the  poets  and  all  the  musicians  of  my  acquaintance, 
to  serenade  him  with  music  and  songs. 

CAPTAIN.  I  shall  bring  my  whole  company  with  me  with 
torches  and  banners. 

LEANDER.  You  will  offend  my  modesty. 

CRISPIN.  And  now  eat,  drink!  Mind  you,  sirrahs! 
About  it!  Quick!  Serve  these  gentlemen.  [To  the  CAP- 
TAIN] A  word  in  your  ear.  Are  you  out  of  money? 

CAPTAIN.  What  shall  I  say? 

CRISPIN.  Say  no  more.  [To  the  INNKEEPER]  Eh!  This 
way !  Let  these  gentlemen  have  forty  or  fifty  crowns  on 
my  master's  account,  as  a  present  from  him.  Omit  nothing  ! 
See  that  they  are  satisfied. 

INNKEEPER.  Don't  worry,  sir.  Forty  or  fifty,  did  you 
say? 

CRISPIN.  While  you  are  about  it,  better  make  it  sixty. 
Your  health,  gentlemen ! 

CAPTAIN.  Long  life  to  the  noblest  gentleman  in  the  world  ! 

HARLEQUIN.  Long  life ! 

CRISPIN.  Shout  long  life,  too,  you  uncivil  people. 

INNKEEPER  AND  SERVANTS.  Long  life !    Long  life ! 

CRISPIN.  Long  life  to  the  sublirnest  poet  and  the  best 
soldier  in  the  world ! 


ACT  i          THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  59 

ALL.  Long  life ! 

LEANDER.  [To   CRISPIN]  Are  you  mad,   Crispin?    What 
are  you  doing  ?     How  are  we  ever  going  to  get  out  of  this  ? 
CRISPIN.  The  same  way  that  we  got  in.     You  see  now 
poesy  and  arms  are  ours.     On !     We  shall  achieve  the  con- 
quest of  the  world ! 

All  exchange  bows  and  salutations,  after  which  LEANDER 
and  CRISPIN  go  out  upon  the  left,  as  they  came  in. 
The  CAPTAIN  and  HARLEQUIN  attack  the  dinner  which 
is  set  before  them  by  the  INNKEEPER  and  the  SERVANTS, 
who  wait  upon  them  assiduously  with  anticipation  of 
their  every  want. 

Curtain 


THE    SECOND    ACT 

A  garden  with  the  facade  of  a  pavilion  opening  upon  it. 
DONA  SIRENA  and  COLUMBINE  enter  from  the  pavilion. 

SIRENA.  Is  it  not  enough  to  deprive  a  woman  of  her  five 
senses,  Columbine?  Can  it  be  possible  that  a  lady  should 
see  herself  placed  in  so  embarrassing  a  position  and  by  low, 
unfeeling  people  ?  How  did  you  ever  dare  to  show  yourself 
in  my  presence  with  such  a  tale? 

COLUMBINE.  But  sooner  or  later  wouldn't  you  have  had 
to  know  it? 

SIRENA.  I  had  rather  have  died  first.  But  did  they  all 
say  the  same? 

COLUMBINE.  All,  one  after  the  other,  exactly  as  I  have 
told  it  to  you.  The  tailor  absolutely  refuses  to  send  you 
the  gown  until  you  have  paid  him  everything  that  you  owe. 

SIRENA.  Impudent  rascal !  Everything  that  I  owe  him. 
The  barefaced  highwayman !  And  does  he  not  stand  in- 
debted for  his  reputation  and  his  very  credit  in  this  city  to 
me?  Until  I  employed  him  in  the  decoration  of  my  per- 
son he  did  not  know,  so  to  speak,  what  it  was  to  dress  a  lady. 

COLUMBINE.  All  the  cooks  and  musicians  and  servants  say 
the  same.  They  refuse  to  play  to-night  or  to  appear  at  the 
fete  unless  they  are  all  paid  beforehand. 

SIRENA.  The  rogues !  The  brood  of  vipers !  Whence 
does  such  insolence  spring?  Were  these  people  not  born  to 
serve  ?  Are  they  to  be  paid  nowadays  in  nothing  but  money  ? 
Is  money  the  only  thing  which  has  value  in  the  world  ? 
Woe  unto  her  who  is  left  without  a  husband  to  look  after 
her,  as  I  am,  without  male  relatives,  alas,  without  any  mas- 

60 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  61 

culine  connection!  A  woman  by  herself  is  worth  nothing 
in  the  world,  be  she  never  so  noble  or  virtuous.  O  day 
foretold  of  the  Apocalypse !  Surely  Antichrist  has  come ! 

COLUMBINE.  I  never  saw  you  so  put  out  before.  I  hardly 
know  you.  You  have  always  been  able  to  rise  above  these 
calamities. 

SIRENA.  Those  were  other  days,  Columbine.  Then  I  had 
my  youth  to  count  on,  and  my  beauty,  as  powerful  allies. 
Princes  and  great  grandees  cast  themselves  at  my  feet. 

COLUMBINE.  But  on  the  other  hand  you  did  not  have  the 
experience  and  knowledge  of  the  world  which  you  have  now. 
And  as  far  as  beauty  is  concerned,  surely  you  never  shone 
with  such  refulgence  as  to-day — that  is,  if  you  will  listen  to 
me. 

SIRENA.  Don't  attempt  to  flatter  me.  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  should  ever  have  got  myself  into  such  a  fix  if  I  had 
been  the  Dona  Sirena  of  my  twenties  ? 

COLUMBINE.  Your  twenty  suitors  ? 

SIRENA.  What  do  you  think?  I  had  no  end  of  suitors. 
And  you  who  have  not  yet  begun  upon  twenty,  you  have 
not  the  sense  to  perceiVe  what  that  means  and  to  profit  by 
it.  I  would  never  have  believed  it  possible.  Otherwise 
should  I  have  adopted  you  for  my  niece  if  I  had,  though  I 
saw  myself  abandoned  by  every  man  in  the  world  and  re- 
duced to  live  alone  with  a  maid  servant?  If  instead  of 
wasting  your  youth  on  this  impecunious  Harlequin,  this 
poet  who  can  bring  you  nothing  but  ballads  and  verses,  you 
had  had  the  sense  to  make  a  proper  use  of  your  time,  we 
should  not  be  languishing  now  in  this  humiliating  dilemma. 

COLUMBINE.  What  do  you  expect?  I  am  too  young  to 
resign  myself  to  being  loved  without  loving.  If  I  am  ever 
to  become  skilful  in  making  others  suffer  for  love  of  me, 
surely  I  must  learn  first  what  it  is  one  suffers  when  one  loves. 


62  THE   BONDS   OF   INTEREST         ACT  n 

And  when  I  do,  I  am  positive  I  shall  be  able  to  profit  by  it. 
I  have  not  yet  turned  twenty,  but  you  must  not  think  be- 
cause of  that  I  have  so  little  sense  as  to  marry  Harlequin. 

SIRENA.  I  would  not  trust  you.  You  are  capricious, 
flighty,  and  allow  yourself  to  be  run  away  with  by  your 
imagination.  But  first  let  us  consider  what  is  to  be  done. 
How  are  we  to  extricate  ourselves  from  this  horrible  dilemma  ? 
In  a  short  time  the  guests  will  arrive — all  persons  of  quality 
and  importance,  and  among  them  Signer  Polichinelle  and 
liis  wife  and  daughter,  who,  for  various  reasons,  are  of  more 
account  to  me  than  the  rest.  You  know  my  house  has  been 
frequented  of  late  by  several  noble  gentlemen,  somewhat 
frayed  hi  their  nobility,  it  is  true,  as  I  am,  through  want  of 
means.  For  any  one  of  them,  the  daughter  of  Signer  Po- 
lichinelle, with  her  rich  dowry  and  the  priceless  sum  which 
she  will  inherit  upon  her  father's  death,  would  be  an  untold 
treasure.  She  has  many  suitors,  but  I  interpose  my  influ- 
ence with  Signer  Polichinelle  and  with  his  wife  in  favor  of 
them  all.  Whichever  one  should  be  fortunate  I  know  that 
he  will  requite  my  good  offices  with  his  bounty,  because  I 
have  made  them  all  sign  an  agreement  which  assures  me  of  it. 
I  have  no  other  means  than  this  to  repair  my  state.  If  now 
some  rich  merchant  or  some  trader  by  some  lucky  chance 
should  fall  hi  love  with  you ....  Ah,  who  can  say  ?  This 
house  might  become  again  what  it  was  in  other  days.  But 
if  the  insolence  of  these  people  breaks  out  to-night,  if  I  can- 
not give  the  fete.  . . .  No  !  I  cannot  think  of  it !  It  would 
be  the  death  of  me! 

CQLUMBINE.  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  Dona  Sirena.  We 
have  enough  in  the  house  to  provide  the  entertainment. 
As  for  the  music  and  the  servants,  Signor  Harlequin  will  be 
able  to  supply  them — he  is  not  a  poet  and  in  love  with  me 
for  nothing.  Many  singers  and  choice  spirits  of  his  acquain- 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  63 

tance  will  willingly  lend  themselves  to  any  adventure.  You 
will  see  that  nothing  will  be  lacking,  and  your  guests  will  all 
say  that  they  have  never  been  present  at  so  marvellous  a 
fete  in  their  lives. 

SIRENA.  Ah,  Columbine !  If  that  could  only  be,  how 
greatly  you  would  rise  in  my  estimation !  Run,  run  and 
seek  out  your  poet.  .  . .  There  is  no  time  to  lose. 

COLUMBINE.  My  poet?  Surely  he  is  walking  up  and 
down  now  on  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  waiting  for  a 
sign. 

SIRENA.  I  fear  it  would  not  be  proper  for  me  to  be  present 
at  your  interview.  I  ought  not  to  demean  myself  by  solicit- 
ing his  favors.  I  leave  all  that  to  you.  Let  nothing  be 
wanting  at  the  fete  and  you  shall  be  well  repaid,  for  these 
terrible  straits  through  which  we  are  passing  to-night  can- 
not continue  forever — or  else  I  am  not  Dona  Sirena ! 

COLUMBINE.  All  will  be  well.     Have  no  fear. 
DONA  SIRENA  goes  out  through  the  pavilion. 

COLUMBINE.  [Stepping  toward  the  right  and  calling]  Harle- 
quin !  Harlequin  !  [CRISPIN  enters]  It  isn't  he ! 

CRISPIN.  Be  not  afraid,  beautiful  Columbine,  mistress 
of  the  mightiest  poet,  who  yet  has  not  been  able  to  heighten 
in  his  verses  the  splendors  of  your  charm.  If  the  picture 
must  always  be  different  from  reality,  the  advantage  in  this 
case  is  all  on  the  side  of  reality.  You  can  imagine,  no  doubt, 
what  the  picture  must  have  been. 

COLUMBINE.  Are  you  a  poet,  too,  or  only  a  courtier  and 
a  flatterer? 

CRISPIN.  I  am  the  best  friend  of  your  lover  Harlequin, 
although  I  only  met  him  to-day;  but  he  has  had  ample 
proof  of  my  friendship  in  this  brief  time.  My  greatest  de- 
sire has  been  to  salute  you,  and  Signor  Harlequin  would  not 
have  been  the  poet  that  I  take  him  for,  had  he  not  trusted 


64  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST         ACT  n 

to  my  friendship  implicitly.  But  for  his  confidence  I  should 
have  been  in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with  you  simply  upon 
the  opportunity  which  he  has  afforded  me  of  seeing  you. 

COLUMBINE.  Signor  Harlequin  trusted  as  much  in  my 
love  as  he  did  to  your  friendship.  Don't  take  so  much  credit 
to  yourself.  It  is  as  foolish  to  trust  a  man  while  he  lives  as 
a  woman  while  she  loves. 

CRISPIN.  Now 'I  see  that  you  are  not  so  fatal  to  the  sight 
as  to  the  ear. 

COLUMBINE.  Pardon  me.  Before  the  fete  to-night  I 
must  speak  with  Signor  Harlequin,  and.  .  . . 

CRISPIN.  It  will  not  be  necessary.  That  is  why  I  have 
come,  a  poor  ambassador  from  him  and  from  my  master, 
who  stoops  to  kiss  your  hand. 

COLUMBINE.  Who  is  your  master,  if  I  may  ask  that 
question  ? 

CRISPIN.  The  noblest  and  most  powerful  gentleman  in  the 
world.  Permit  me  for  the  present  not  to  mention  his  name. 
Soon  it  will  be  known.  My  master  desires  to  salute  Dona 
Sirena  and  to  be  present  at  her  fete  to-night. 

COLUMBINE.  At  her  fete?    Don't  you  know. . . . 

CRISPIN.  I  know  everything.  That  is  my  business — to 
investigate.  I  know  that  there  were  certain  inconveniences 
which  threatened  to  becloud  it;  but  there  will  be  none. 
Everything  is  provided  for. 

COLUMBINE.  What !     Then  you  do  know  ? 

CRISPIN.  I  assure  you  everything  is  provided  for — a 
sumptuous  reception,  lights  and  fireworks,  musicians  and 
sweet  song.  It  will  be  the  most  brilliant  fete  which  ever 
was  in  the  world. 

COLUMBINE.  Ah,  then  you  are  an  enchanter? 

CRISPIN.  Now  you  begin  to  know  me.  But  I  shall  only 
tell  you  that  I  do  not  bring  good  fortune  with  me  for  nothing. 


ACT  ii         THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  65 

The -people  of  this  city  are  so  intelligent  that  I  am  sure  they 
will  be  incapable  of  frowning  upon  it  and  discouraging  it 
with  foolish  scruples  when  they  see  it  arrive.  My  master 
knows  that  Signer  Polichinelle  and  his  only  daughter,  the 
beautiful  Silvia,  the  richest  heiress  in  the  city,  are  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  fete  to-night.  My  master  has  to  fall  in  love  with 
her,  my  master  has  to  marry  her;  and  my  master  will  know 
how  to  requite  in  fitting  fashion  the  good  offices  of  Dona 
Sirena  and  of  yourself  in  the  matter,  if  so  be  that  you  do 
him  the  honor  to  assist  in  his  suit. 

COLUMBINE.  Your  speech  is  impertinent.  Such  boldness 
gives  offense. 

CRISPIN.  Time  presses  and  I  have  no  leisure  to  pay  com- 
pliments. 

COLUMBINE.  If  the  master  is  to  be  judged  by  the  man .... 

CRISPIN.  Reassure  yourself.  You  will  find  my  master  the 
most  courteous,  the  most  affable  gentleman  in  the  world. 
My  effrontery  permits  him  to  be  modest.  The  hard  neces- 
sities of  life  sometimes  compel  the  noblest  cavalier  to  descend 
to  the  devices  of  the  ruffian,  just  as  sometimes  they  oblige 
the  noblest  ladies,  in  order  to  maintain  their  state,  to  stoop 
to  menial  tricks,  and  this  mixture  of  ruin  and  nobility  in 
one  person  is  out  of  harmony  with  nature.  It  is  better  to 
divide  among  two  persons  that  which  is  usually  found 
confused  clumsily  and  joined  in  one.  My  master  and  my- 
self, as  being  one  person,  are  each  a  part  of  the  other.  Would 
it  could  be  always  so !  We  have  all  within  ourselves  a  great 
and  splendid  gentleman  of  lofty  hopes  and  towering  ideals, 
capable  of  everything  that  is  noble  and  everything  that  is 
good — and  by  his  side,  a  humble  servant  born  to  forlorn 
hopes  and  miserable  and  hidden  things,  who  employs  him- 
self in  the  base  actions  to  which  we  are  enforced  by  life. 
The  art  of  living  is  so  to  separate  the  two  that  when  we 


66  THE   BONDS   OF   INTEREST         ACT  n 

fall  into  any  ignominy  we  can  say:  "It  was  not  my  fault; 
it  was  not  I.  It  was  my  servant."  In  the  greatest  misery 
to  which  we  sink  there  is  always  something  in  us  which  rises 
superior  to  ourselves.  We  should  despise  ourselves  too 
much  if  we  did  not  believe  that  we  were  better  than  our  lives. 
Of  course  you  know  who  my  master  is:  he  is  the  one  of  the 
towering  thoughts,  of  the  lofty,  beautiful  ideals.  Of  course 
you  know  who  I  am:  I  am  the  one  of  the  forlorn  and  hidden 
things,  the  one  who  grovels  and  toils  on  the  ground,  delving 
among  falsehood  and  humiliation  and  lies.  Only  there  is 
something  in  me  which  redeems  me  and  elevates  me  in  my 
own  eyes.  It  is  the  loyalty  of  my  service,  this  loyalty  which 
humiliates  and  abases  itself  that  another  may  fly,  that  he 
jnay  always  be  the  lord  of  the  towering  thoughts,  of  the 
lofty,  beautiful  ideals. 

Music  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

COLUMBINE.  What  is  this  music? 

CRISPIN.  The  music  which  my  master  is  bringing  with 
him  to  the  fete  with  all  his  pages  and  all  the  attendants  of 
his  train,  accompanied  by  a  great  court  of  poets  and  singers 
presided  over  by  Signer  Harlequin,  and  an  entire  legion  of 
soldiers  with  the  Captain  at  their  head,  illuminating  his 
coming  with  torches,  with  rockets  and  red  fire. 

COLUMBINE.  Who  is  your  master,  that  he  is  able  to  do  so 
much  ?  I  run  to  tell  my  lady .... 

CRISPIN.  It  will  not  be  necessary.     She  is  here. 
DONA  SIRENA  enters  from  the  pavilion. 

SIRENA.  What  is  this?  Who  has  prepared  this  music? 
What  troop  of  people  is  arriving  at  my  door? 

COLUMBINE.  Ask  no  questions.  Know  that  to-day  a 
great  gentleman  has  arrived  in  this  city,  and  it  is  he  who 
offers  you  this  fete  to-night.  His  servant  will  tell  you  every- 
thing. I  hardly  know  myself  whether  I  have  been  talking 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  67 

to  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  madman.  Whichever  it  is,  I  as- 
sure you  that  he  is  a  most  extraordinary  man. 

SIRENA.  Then  it  is  not  Harlequin? 

COLUMBINE.  Ask  no  questions.     It  is  all  a  work  of  magic! 

CRISPIN.  Dona  Sirena,  my  master  begs  permission  to  kiss 
your  hand.  So  great  a  lady  and  so  noble  a  gentleman  ought 
not,  when  they  meet,  to  descend  to  indignities  inappropriate 
to  their  state.  That  is  why,  before  he  arrives,  I  have  come  to 
tell  you  everything.  I  am  acquainted  with  a  thousand 
notable  exploits  of  your  history,  which  should  I  but  refer 
to  them,  would  be  sufficient  to  assure  me  attention.  But  it 
might  seem  impertinence  to  mention  them.  [Handing  her  a 
paper]  My  master  acknowledges  in  this  paper  over  his  sig- 
nature the  great  sum  which  he  will  be  in  your  debt 
should  you  be  able  to  fulfil  upon  your  part  that  which  he 
has  here  the  honor  to  propose. 

SIRENA.  What  paper  and  what  debt  is  this  ?  [Reading  the 
paper  to  herself]  How  ?  A  hundred  thousand  crowns  at  once 
and  an  equal  quantity  upon  the  death  of  Signor  Polichinelle, 
if  your  master  succeeds  in  marrying  his  daughter?  What 
insolence  and  what  infamy  have  we  here  ?  And  to  a  lady ! 
Do  you  know  to  whom  you  are  speaking?  Do  you  know 
what  house  this  is? 

CRISPIN.  Dona  Sirena !  Forego  your  wrath.  There  is  no- 
body present  to  warrant  such  concern.  Put  that  paper 
away  with  the  others,  and  let  us  not  refer  to  the  matter 
again.  My  master  proposes  nothing  which  is  improper  to 
you,  nor  would  you  consent  that  he  should  do  so.  Whatever 
may  happen  hereafter  will  be  the  work  of  chance  and  of 
love.  I,  the  servant,  was  the  one  who  set  this  unworthy 
snare.  You  are  ever  the  noble  dame,  my  master  the  vir- 
tuous cavalier,  and  as  you  meet  in  this  festival  to-night, 
you  will  talk  of  a  thousand  gallant  and  priceless  things,  as 


68  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST         ACT  n 

your  guests  stroll  by  and  whisper  enviously  in  praise  of  the 
ladies'  beauty  and  the  exquisite  artfulness  of  their  dress,  the 
splendor  and  magnificence  of  the  entertainment,  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  music,  the  nimble  grace  of  the  dancers'  feet.  And 
who  is  to  say  that  this  is  not  the  whole  story?  Is  not  life 
just  this — a  fete  in  which  the  music  serves  to  cover  up  the 
words,  the  words  to  cover  up  the  thoughts?  Then  let  the 
music  sound,  let  conversation  flash  and  sparkle  with  its 
smiles,  let  the  supper  be  well  served — this  is  all  that  con- 
cerns the  guests.  See,  here  is  my  master,  who  comes  to 
salute  you  in  all  courtesy. 

LEANDER,  HARLEQUIN,  and  the  CAPTAIN  enter  from  the 
right. 

LEANDER.  Dona  Sirena,  I  kiss  your  hand. 

SIRENA.  Sir. ... 

LEANDER.  My  servant  has  already  told  you  in  my  name 
much  more  than  I  myself  could  say. 

CRISPIN.  Being  a  gentleman  of  discretion,  my  master  is 
a  B^an  of  few  words.  His  admiration  is  mute. 

HARLEQUIN.  He  wisely  knows  how  to  admire. 

CAPTAIN.  True  merit. 

HARLEQUIN.  True  valor. 

CAPTAIN.  The  divine  art  of  poesy. 

HARLEQUIN.  The  incomparable  science  of  war. 

CAPTAIN.  His  greatness  appears  in  everything ! 

HARLEQUIN.  He  is  the  noblest  gentleman  in  the  world. 

CAPTAIN.  My  sword  shall  always  be  at  his  service. 

HARLEQUIN.  I  shall  dedicate  my  greatest  poem  to  his 
glory. 

CRISPIN.  Enough !  Enough !  You  will  offend  his  native 
modesty.  See  how  he  tries  to  hide  himself  and  slip  away. 
He  is  a  violet. 


ACT  ii         THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  69 

SIRENA.  Surely  he  has  no  need  to  speak  for  himself  who 
can  make  others  talk  like  this  in  his  praise. 

After  bows  and  salutations  the  men  all  withdraw  upon 
the  right,  DONA  SIRENA  and  COLUMBINE  remaining 
alone. 

SIRENA.  What  do  you  think  of  this,  Columbine? 

COLUMBINE.  I  think  that  the  master  is  most  attractive 
in  his  figure  and  the  servant  most  captivating  in  his  im- 
pertinence. 

SIRENA.  We  shall  take  advantage  of  them  both.  For 
either  I  know  nothing  of  the  world  or  about  men,  or  else 
fortune  this  day  has  set  her  foot  within  my  doors. 

COLUMBINE.  Surely  then  it  must  be  fortune,  for  you  do 
know  something  of  the  world,  and  about  men — what  don't 
you  know ! 

SIRENA.  Here  are  Risela  and  Laura,  the  first  to  arrive. 

COLUMBINE.  When  were  they  the  last  at  anything?  I 
leave  them  to  you;  I  must  not  lose  sight  of  our  cavalier. 

She  goes  out  to  the  right.     LAURA  and  RISELA  enter** 

SIRENA.  My  dears !  Do  you  know,  I  was  beginning  to 
worry  already  for  fear  that  you  would  not  come? 

LAURA.  What?    Is  it  really  so  late? 

SIRENA.  Naturally  it  is  late  before  I  worry  about  you. 

RISELA.  We  were  obliged  to  disappoint  at  two  other  f£tes 
so  as  not  to  miss  yours. 

LAURA.  Though  we  understood  that  you  might  not  be 
able  to  give  it  to-night.  We  heard  that  you  were  indis- 
posed. 

SIRENA.  If  only  to  rebuke  gossipers  I  should  Ixave  given 
it  though  I  had  died. 

RISELA.  And  we  should  have  been  present  at  it  even 
though  we  had  died. 

LAUUA.  But  of  course  you  have  not  heard  the  news  ? 


70  THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST         ACT  n 

RISELA.  Nobody  is  talking  of  anything  else. 

LAURA.  A  mysterious  personage  has  arrived  in  the  city. 
Some  say  that  he  is  a  secret  ambassador  from  Venice  or  from 
France. 

RISELA.  Others  say  that  he  has  come  to  seek  a  wife  for  the 
Grand  Turk. 

LAURA.  They  say  he  is  beautiful  as  an  Adonis. 

RISELA.  If  we  could  only  manage  to  meet  him ! — What  a 
pity !  You  ought  to  have  invited  him  to  your  fete. 

SIRENA.  It  was  not  necessary,  my  dears.  He  himself 
sent  an  ambassador  begging  permission  to  come.  He  is 
now  in  my  house,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  but 
that  you  will  be  talking  to  him  soon. 

LAURA.  What  is  that?  I  told  you  that  we  made  no  mis- 
take when  we  came.  Something  was  sure  to  happen. 

RISELA.  How  we  shall  be  envied  to-night! 

LAURA.  Everybody  is  mad  to  know  him. 

SIRENA.  It  was  no  effort  for  me.  It  was  sufficient  for  him 
to  hear  that  I  was  receiving  in  my  house. 

RISELA.  Of  course — the  old  story.  No  person  of  impor- 
tance ever  arrives  in  the  city,  but  it  seems  he  runs  at  once 
and  pays  his  attentions  to  you. 

LAURA.  I  am  impatient  to  see  him.  Lead  us  to  him,  on 
your  life ! 

RISELA.  Yes !    Take  us  where  he  is. 

SIRENA.  I  beg  your  pardons — Signer  Polichinelle  arriving 
with  his  family.  But,  my  dears,  you  will  not  wait.  You 
need  no  introductions. 

RISELA.  Certainly  not!     Come,  Laura. 

LAURA.  Come,  Risela,  before  the  crowd  grows  too  great 
and  it  is  impossible  to  get  near. 

LAURA  and  RISELA  go  out  to  the  right.    POLICHINELLE, 
the  WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE,  and  SILVIA  enter. 


ACT  ii         THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  71 

SIRENA.  O,  Signer  Polichinelle !  I  was  afraid  you  were 
not  coming.  Until  now  I  really  did  not  know  whether  or 
not  I  was  to  have  a  fete ! 

POLICHINELLE.  It  was  not  my  fault;  it  was  my  wife's. 
With  forty  gowns  to  select  from,  she  can  never  make  up 
her  mind  which  to  put  on. 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  Yes,  if  I  were  to  please  him  I 
should  make  an  exhibition  of  myself.  Any  suggestion  will 
do.  As  it  is,  you  see  that  I  have  really  not  had  time  to  put 
on  anything. 

SIRENA.  But  you  never  were  more  beautiful ! 

POLICHINELLE.  Well,  she  is  not  displaying  one-half  of  her 
jewels.  If  she  were,  she  could  not  support  the  weight  of  the 
treasure. 

SIRENA.  Who  has  a  better  right  to  be  proud  than  you 
have,  Signer  Polichinelle  ?  What  your  wife  displays  are  the 
riches  which  you  have  acquired  by  your  labor. 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  I  tell  him  this  is  the  time  to  en- 
joy them.  He  ought  to  be  ambitious  and  seek  to  rise  in  the 
world.  Instead,  all  he  thinks  about  is  how  he  can  marry 
his  daughter  to  some  trader. 

SIRENA.  0,  Signer  Polichinelle!  Your  daughter  deserves 
a  great  deal  better  than  a  trader.  Surely  you  hold  your 
daughter  far  too  high  for  trade.  Such  a  thing  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  for  one  moment.  You  have  no  right  to  sacrifice 
her  heart  to  a  bargain.  What  do  you  say,  Silvia? 

POLICHINELLE.  She  would  prefer  some  waxed-up  dandy. 
Instead  of  listening  to  my  advice,  she  reads  novels  and 
poetry.  It  disgusts  me. 

SILVIA.  I  always  do  as  my  father  says,  unless  it  is  dis- 
pleasing to  my  mother  or  distasteful  to  me. 

SIRENA.  You  speak  very  sensibly. 


72  THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST         ACT  11 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  Her  father  has  an  idea  that  there 
is  nothing  but  money  to  be  had  in  the  world. 

POLICHINELLE.  I  have  an  idea  that  without  money  there 
is  nothing  to  be  had  out  of  the  world.  Money  is  the  one 
thing  which  counts.  It  buys  everything. 

SIRENA.  Oh,  I  cannot  hear  you  talk  like  that !  What  of 
virtue,  what  of  intelligence,  what  of  noble  blood? 

POLICHINELLE.  They  all  have  their  price.  You  know  it. 
And  nobody  knows  it  better  than  I  do,  for  I  have  bought 
heavily  in  those  lines,  and  found  them  reasonable. 

SIRENA.  O,  Signer  Polichinelle !  You  are  in  a  playful 
humor  this  evening.  You  know  very  well  that  money  will 
not  buy  everything,  and  if  your  daughter  should  fall  in  love 
with  some  noble  gentleman,  you  would  not  dream  of  at- 
tempting to  oppose  her.  I  can  see  that  you  have  a  father's 
heart. 

POLICHINELLE.  I  have.  I  would  do  anything  for  my 
daughter. 

SIRENA.  Even  ruin  yourself? 

POLICHINELLE.  That  would  not  be  anything  for  my 
daughter.  Why,  I  would  steal  first,  rob,  murder — any- 
thing. .  . . 

SIRENA.  I  felt  sure  that  you  must  know  some  way  to  re- 
coup yourself.  But  the  fete  is  crowded  already !  Come  with 
me,  Silvia.  I  have  picked  out  a  handsome  gentleman  to 
dance  with  you.  You  will  make  a  striking  couple — ideal ! 

All  go  out  upon  the  right  except  SIGNOR  POLICHINELLE, 
who  is  detained  as  he  is  about  to  do  so  by  CRISPIN, 
who  enters  and  accosts  him. 

CRISPIN.  Signer  Polichinelle!  With  your  permission. . . . 
A  word  with  you. ... 

POLICHINELLE.  Who  calls  me  ?    What  do  you  want  ? 

CRISPIN.  You  don't  remember  me?    It  is  not  surprising. 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  73 

Time  blots  out  everything,  and  when  what  has  been  blotted 
out  was  unpleasant,  after  a  while  we  do  not  remember  even 
the  blot,  but  hurry  and  paint  over  it  with  bright  colors,  like 
these  with  which  you  now  hide  your  capers  from  the  world. 
Why,  when  I  knew  you,  Signor  Polichinelle,  you  had  hard 
work  to  cover  your  nakedness  with  a  couple  of  muddy  rags ! 

POLICHINELLE.  Who  are  you  and  where  did  you  know  me  ? 

CRISPIN.  I  was  a  mere  boy  then;  *y°u  were  a  grown  man. 
But  you  cannot  have  forgotten  so  soon  all  those  glorious 
exploits  on  the  high  seas,  all  those  victories  gained  over  the 
Turks,  to  which  we  contributed  not  a  little  with  our  heroic 
strength,  both  pulling  chained  at  the  same  noble  oar  in  the 
same  victorious  galley? 

POLICHINELLE.  Impudent  scoundrel !     Silence,  or 

CRISPIN.  Or  you  will  do  with  me  as  you  did  with  your 
first  master  in  Naples,  or  with  your  first  wife  in  Bologna,  or 
with  that  usurious  Jew  in  Venice? 

POLICHINELLE.  Silence !  Who  are  you  who  know  so  much 
and  talk  so  freely? 

CRISPIN.  I  am — what  you  were.  One  who  will  come  to 
be  what  you  are — as  you  have  done.  Not  with  the  same 
violence  as  you,  for  these  are  other  days  and  only  madmen 
commit  murder  now,  and  lovers,  and  poor  ignorant  wretches 
who  fall  armed  upon  the  wayfarer  in  dark  alleys  or  along  the 
solitary  highway.  Despicable  gallows-birds  !  Negligible ! 

POLICHINELLE.  What  do  you  want  of  me?  Money,  is  it 
not?  Well,  we  can  meet  again;  this  is  not  the  place.  .  .  . 

CRISPIN.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  your  money.  I 
only  want  to  be  ypur  friend,  your  ally,  as  in  those  days. 

POLICHINELLE.  What  can  I  do  for  you? 

CRISPIN.  Nothing;  for  to-day  I  am  the  one  who  is  going 
to  do  for  you,  and  oblige  you  with  a  warning.  [Directing  him 
to  hole  off  upon  the  right]  Do  you  see  your  daughter  there — 


74  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST         ACT  n 

how  she  is  dancing  with  that  young  gentleman  ?  How  coyly 
she  blushes  at  his  gallant  compliments !  Well,  that  gentle- 
man is  my  master. 

POLICHINELLE.  Your  master?  Then  he  must  be  an  ad- 
venturer, a  rogue,  a  blackguard,  like.  .  .  . 

CRISPIN.  Like  us,  you  were  going  to  say  ?  No,  he  is  more 
dangerous  than  we,  because,  as  you  see,  he  has  a  fine  figure, 
and  there  is  a  mystery  and  an  enchantment  in  his  glance 
and  a  sweetness  in  his  voice  which  go  straight  to  the  heart, 
and  which  stir  it  as  at  the  recital  of  some  sad  tale.  Is  not 
this  enough  to  make  any  woman  fall  in  love?  Never  say 
that  I  did  not  warn  you.  Run  and  separate  your  daughter 
from  this  man  and  never  permit  her  to  dance  with  him  again, 
no,  nor  to  speak  to  him,  so  long  as  she  shall  live. 

POLICHINELLE.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  is  your 
master  and  is  this  the  way  you  serve  him? 

CRISPIN.  Are  you  surprised?  Have  you  forgotten  al- 
ready how  it  was  when  you  were  a  servant?  And  I  have 
not  planned  to  assassinate  him  yet. 

POLICHINELLE.  You  are  right.  A  master  is  always  des- 
picable. But  what  interest  have  you  in  serving  me? 

CRISPIN.  To  come  safe  into  some  good  port,  as  we  often 
did  when  we  rowed  together  at  the  oar.  Then  sometimes 
you  used  to  say  to  me:  "You  are  stronger  than  I,  row  for 
me."  In  this  galley  in  which  we  are  to-day,  you  are  stronger 
than  I.  Row  for  me,  for  your  faithful  friend  of  other  days, 
for  life  is  a  horrible  vile  galley  and  I  have  rowed  so  long. 

He  goes  out  by  the  way  he  came  in.     DONA  SIRENA,  the 
WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE,  RISELA,  and  LAURA  re-enter. 

LAURA.  Only  Dona  Sirena  could  have  given  such  a  fete ! 

RISELA.  To-night  she  has  outstripped  all  the  others. 

SIRENA.  The  presence  of  so  distinguished  a  gentleman  was 
an  added  attraction. 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  75 

POLICHINELLE.  But  Silvia ?  Where  is  Silvia?  What 
have  you  done  with  my  daughter? 

SIRENA.  Do  not  disturb  yourself,  Signer  Polichinelle. 
Your  daughter  is  in  excellent  hands,  and  you  may  rest  as- 
sured that  she  will  remain  in  them  as  long  as  she  is  in  my 
house. 

RISELA.  There  were  no  attentions  for  any  one  but  her. 

LAUBA.  All  the  smiles  were  for  her. 

RISELA.  And  all  the  sighs ! 

POLICHINELLE.  Whose?  This  mysterious  gentleman's? 
I  do  not  like  it.  This  must  stop 

SIRENA.  But  Signer  Polichinelle  ! 

POLICHINELLE.  Away !  Let  me  be !  I  know  what  I  am 
doing.  [He  rushes  out. 

SIRENA.  What  is  the  matter  ?     What  infatuation  is  this  ? 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  Now  you  see  what  sort  of  man 
he  is.  He  is  going  to  commit  an  outrage  on  that  gentleman. 
He  wants  to  marry  his  daughter  to  a  trader,  does  he — a 
clinker  of  worthless  coin?  He  wants  to  make  her  unhappy 
for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

SIRENA.  No,  anything  rather  than  that!  Remember — 
you  are  her  mother  and  this  is  the  time  for  you  to  interpose 
your  authority. 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  Look !  He  has  spoken  to  him 
and  the  cavalier  drops  Silvia's  hand  and  retires,  hanging  his 
head. 

LAURA.  And  now  Signor  Polichinelle  is  attacking  your 
daughter ! 

SIRENA.  Come !  Come !  Such  conduct  cannot  be  toler- 
ated in  my  house. 

RISELA.  Signora  Polichinelle,  in  spite  of  your  riches  you 
are  au  unfortunate  woman. 


76  THE   BONDS   OF   INTEREST         ACT  u 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  Would  you  believe  it,  he  even 
forgets  himself  so  far  sometimes  as  to  turn  upon  me? 

LAURA.  Is  it  possible?  And  are  you  a  woman  to  submit 
to  that? 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  He  makes  it  up  afterward  by 
giving  me  a  handsome  present. 

SIRENA.  Well,  there  are  husbands  of  my  acquaintance 
who  never  even  think  of  making  up.  ... 

They  all  go  out.     LEANDER  and  CRISPIN  enter. 

CRISPIN.  What  is  this  sadness,  this  dejection  ?  I  expected 
to  find  you  in  better  spirits. 

LEANDER.  I  was  never  unfortunate  till  now;  at  least  it 
never  mattered  to  me  whether  or  not  I  was  unfortunate. 
Let  us  fly,  Crispin,  let  us  fly  from  this  city  before  any  one 
can  discover  us  and  find  out  who  we  are. 

CRISPIN.  If  we  fly  it  will  be  after  every  one  has  discovered 
us  and  they  are  running  after  us  to  detain  us  and  bring  us 
back  in  spite  of  ourselves.  It  would  be  most  discourteous 
to  depart  with  such  scant  ceremony  without  bidding  our  at- 
tentive friends  good-by. 

LEANDER.  Do  not  jest,  Crispin;   I  am  in  despair. 

CRISPIN.  So  you  are.  And  just  when  our  hopes  are  under 
fullest  sail. 

LEANDER.  What  could  you  expect?  You  wanted  me  to 
pretend  to  be  in  love,  but  I  have  not  been  able  to  pretend  it. 

CRISPIN.  Why  not? 

LEANDER.  Because  I  love — I  love  in  spirit  and  in  truth ! 

CRISPIN.  Silvia?  Is  that  what  you  are  complaining 
about  ? 

LEANDER.  I  never  believed  it  possible  a  man  could  love 
like  this.  I  never  believed  that  I  could  ever  love.  Through 
all  my  wandering  life  along  the  dusty  roads,  I  was  not  only 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  77 

the  one  who  passed,  I  was  the  one  who  fled,  the  enemy  of 
the  harvest  and  the  field,  the  enemy  of  man,  enemy  of  sun- 
shine and  the  day.  Sometimes  the  fruit  of  the  wayside  tree, 
stolen,  not  given,  left  some  savor  of  joy  on  my  parched  lips, 
and  sometimes,  after  many  a  bitter  day,  resting  at  night 
beneath  the  stars,  the  calm  repose  of  heaven  would  invite 
and  soothe  me  to  a  dream  of  something  that  might  be  in  my 
life  like  that  calm  night  sky,  brooding  infinite  over  my  soul 
— serene !  And  so  to-night,  in  the  enchantment  of  this  f£te, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  there  had  come  a  calm,  a  peace  into  my 
life — and  I  was  dreaming  !  Ah !  How  I  did  dream  !  But 
to-morrow  it  will  be  again  the  bitter  flight  with  justice  at 
our  heels,  and  I  cannot  bear  that  they  should  take  me  here 
where  she  is,  and  where  she  may  ever  have  cause  to  be 
ashamed  at  having  known  me. 

CRISPIN.  Why,  I  thought  that  you  had  been  received  with 
favor !  And  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  noticed  it.  Dona 
Sirena  and  our  good  friends,  the  Captain  and  the  poet,  have 
been  most  eloquent  in  your  praises.  To  that  rare  excellent 
mother,  the  Wife  of  Polichinelle,  who  thinks  of  nothing  but 
how  she  can  relate  herself  by  marriage  to  some  nobleman, 
you.  have  seemed  the  son-in-law  of  her  dreams.  As  for 
Signor  Polichinelle.  . .  . 

LEANDEB.  He  knows.  . .  .he  suspects.  .  . . 

CRISPIN.  Naturally.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  deceive  Signor 
Polichinelle  as  it  is  an  ordinary  man.  An  old  fox  like  him 
has  to  be  cheated  truthfully.  I  decided  that  the  best  thing 
for  us  to  do  was  to  tell  him  everything. 

LEANDER.  How  so  ? 

CRISPIN.  Obviously.  He  knows  me  of  old.  When  I  told 
him  that  you  were  my  master,  he  rightly  supposed  that  the 
master  must  be  worthy  of  the  man.  And  upon  my  part,  in 
appreciation  of  his  confidence,  I  warned  him  not  to  permit 


78 

you  under  any  circumstances  to  come  near  to  or  speak  with 
his  daughter. 

LEANDER.  You  did  ?     Then  what  have  I  to  hope  ? 

CRISPIN.  You  are  a  fool !  Why,  that  Signor  Polichinelle 
will  exert  all  his  authority  to  prevent  you  from  meeting  her. 

LEANDER.  I  do  not  understand. 

CRISPIN.  In  that  way  he  will  become  our  most  powerful 
ally,  for  if  he  opposes  it,  that  will  be  enough  to  make  his 
wife  take  the  opposite  side,  and  the  daughter  will  fall  in  love 
with  you  madly.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful daughter  of  a  rich  father,  who  has  been  brought  up  to 
the  gratification  of  her  every  whim,  can  do  when  she  finds 
out  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  somebody  is  opposing 
her  wishes.  I  am  certain  that  this  very  night,  before  the 
fete  is  over,  she  will  find  some  way  of  eluding  the  vigilance  of 
her  father  at  whatever  cost,  and  return  to  speak  with  you. 

LEANDER.  But  can't  you  see  that  Signor  Polichinelle  is 
nothing  to  me,  no,  nor  the  wide  world  either  ?  It  is  she,  only 
she !  It  is  to  her  that  I  am  unwilling  to  appear  unworthy 
or  mean,  it  is  to  her — to  her  that  I  cannot  lie. 

CRISPIN.  Bah!  Enough  of  this  nonsense!  Don't  tell 
me  that.  It  is  too  late  to  draw  back.  Think  what  will 
happen  if  we  vacillate  now  and  hesitate  in  going  on.  You 
say  that  you  have  fallen  in  love?  Well,  this  real  love  will 
serve  us  better  than  if  it  were  put  on.  Otherwise  you  would 
have  wanted  to  get  through  with  it  too  quickly.  If  insolence 
and  effrontery  are  the  only  qualities  which  are  of  use  else- 
where, hi  love  a  faint  suggestion  of  timidity  is  of  advantage 
to  a  man.  Timidity  in  a  man  always  makes  the  woman 
bolder.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  here  is  the  innocent  Silvia 
now,  skulking  in  the  shadows  and  only  waiting  for  a  chance 
to  come  near  until  I  retire  or  am  concealed, 

LEANDER.  Silvia,  do  you  say? 


ACT  ii         THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  73 

CRISPIN.  Hush!  You  may  frighten  her.  When  she  is 
with  you,  remember,  discretion — only  a  few  words,  very  few. 
Adore  her,  admire  her,  contemplate  her,  and  let  the  enchant- 
ment of  this  night  of  pallid  blue  speak  for  you,  propitious  as 
it  is  to  love,  and  whisper  to  her  in  the  music  whose  soft  notes 
die  away  amid  the  foliage  and  fall  upon  our  ears  like  sad 
overtones  of  this  festival  of  joy. 

LEANDER.  Do  not  trifle,  Crispin !  Do  not  trifle  with  my 
love !  It  will  be  my  death. 

CRISPIN.  Why  should  I  trifle  with  it?  I  know,  too,  it  is 
not  always  well  to  grovel  on  the  ground.  Sometimes  we 
must  soar  and  mount  up  into  the  sky  better  to  dominate  the 
earth.  Mount  now  and  soar — and  I  will  grovel  still.  The 
world  lies  in  our  hands ! 

He  goes  out  to  the  right.     SILVIA  enters. 

LEANDER.  Silvia! 

SILVIA.  Is  it  you?  You  must  pardon  me.  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  find  you  here. 

LEANDER.  I  fly  from  the  festival.  I  am  saddened  by  this 
joy. 

SILVIA.  What?    You,  too? 

LEANDER.  Too,  do  you  say?    Does  joy  sadden  you,  too? 

SILVIA.  My  father  is  angry  with  me.  He  never  spoke  to 
me  like  this  before.  And  he  was  discourteous  to  you.  Will 
you  forgive  him? 

LEANDER.  Yes.  I  forgive  him  everything.  But  you 
must  not  make  him  angry  upon  my  account.  Return  to 
the  company.  They  will  be  looking  for  you.  If  they  find 
you  here  with  me.  . . . 

SILVIA.  You  are  right.  But  you  must  come,  too.  Why 
should  you  be  so  sad? 

LEANDER.  No,  I  must  slip  away  without  anybody  seeing 
me,  without  their  knowing  I  am  gone.  I  must  go  far  away. 


80  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST         ACT  n 

SILVIA.  What  ?  But  you  have  important  business  in  the 
city.  I  know  you  have.  . . .  You  will  have  to  stay  a  long, 
long  time. 

LEANDER.  No,  no !    Not  another  day,  not  another  hour ! 

SILVIA.  But  then.  . . .     You  have  not  lied  to  me? 

LEANDER.  Lied  ?  No !  Don't  say  that  I  have  lied ! 
No;  this  is  the  one  truth  of  my  whole  life — this  dream  from 
which  there  should  be  no  awakening ! 

The  music  of  a  song  is  heard  in  the  distance,  continuing 
until  the  curtain  falls. 

SILVIA.  It  is  Harlequin,  singing.  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter? 
You  are  crying.  Is  it  the  music  which  makes  you  cry? 
Why  will  you  not  tell  me  what  it  is  that  makes  you  cry? 

LEANDER.  What  makes  me  cry?  The  song  will  tell  you. 
Listen  to  the  song  ! 

SILVIA.  We  can  hear  only  the  music;  the  words  are  lost, 
it  is  so  far  away.  But  don't  you  know  it?  It  is  a  song  to 
the  silence  of  the  night.  It  is  called  the  "Kingdom  of  the 
Soul."  You  must  know  it. 

LEANDER.  Say  it  over  to  me. 

SILVIA: 

The  amorous  night  above  the  silent  lover 
Across  the  blue  heaven  spreads  a  nuptial  veil. 
The  night  has  strewn  its  diamonds  on  the  cover 
Of  a  moonlit  sky  in  drowsy  August  pale. 
The  garden  in  the  shade  now  knows  no  color, 
Deep  in  the  shadow  of  its  obscurity 
Lightly  the  leaflets  flutter,  sweetly  smells  the  flower, 
And  love  broods  there  in  silent  sympathy. 

You  voices  which  sigh,  you  voices  which  sing, 
You  voices  which  whisper  sweet  phrases  of  love, 
Intruders  you  are  and  a  blasphemous  thing, 


ACT  ii         THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  81 

Like  an  oath  at  night-tide  in  a  prayer  sped  above. 
Great  Spirit  of  Silence,  whom  I  adore, 
There  is  in  your  silence  the  ineffable  voice 
Of  those  who  have  died  loving  in  silence  of  yore, 
Of  those  who  were  silent  and  died  of  their  love; 
Of  those  in  their  lives  whose  great  love  was  such 
They  were  unable  to  tell  it,  their  love  was  so  much ! 
Yours  are  the  voices  which  nightly  I  hear, 
Whispers  of  love  and  eternity  near. 

Mother  of  my  soul,  the  light  of  this  star, 

Is  it  not  the  light  of  your  eyes, 
Which,  like  a  drop  of  God's  blood, 

Trembles  in  the  night 

And  fades  at  suifl-ise  ? 
Tell  him  whom  I  love,  I  never  shall  love 

More  than  him  on  the  earth, 
And  when  he  fades  away,  light  of  my  eyes, 

I  shall  kiss  at  sunrise 

But  the  light  of  thy  star ! 

LEANDEB: 

Mother  of  my  soul,  I  never  have  loved 

More  than  you  on  the  earth. 
And  when  you  fade  away,  light  of  my  eyes, 

I  shall  kiss  at  sunrise 

The  light  of  thy  star. 

They  remain  in  silence,  embracing  and  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes. 

CRISPIN.  [Who  appears  at  the  right — to  himself] 

Poesy  and  night  and  madness  of  the  lover. . . . 
All  has  to  serve  us  that  to  our  net  shall  come. 


82  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST         ACT  11 

The  victory  is  sure !     Courage,  charge  and  over ! 
Who  shall  overcome  us  when  love  beats  the  drum  ? 

SILVIA  and  LEANDER  move  slowly  off  to  the  right,  locked 
in  each  other's  arms.  CRISPIN  follows  them  in  silence, 
without  being  seen.  Slowly  the 

Curtain  Descends 


THE    THIRD    ACT 

A  room  in  LEANDER'S  house. 

CRISPIN,  the  CAPTAIN,  and  HARLEQUIN  enter  from  the  right. 

CRISPIN.  Enter,  gentlemen,  and  be  seated.  Will  you  take 
something?  Let  me  give  orders  to  have  it  brought.  Hello 
there !  Ho ! 

CAPTAIN.  No !    By  no  means !    We  can  accept  nothing. 

HARLEQUIN.  We  came  merely  to  offer  our  services  to  your 
master  after  what  we  have  just  heard. 

CRISPIN.  Incredible  treachery,  which,  believe  me,  shall 
not  be  suffered  to  remain  unpunished !  I  promise  you  if 
Signor  Polichinelle  ever  puts  himself  within  the  reach  of  my 
hands 

HARLEQUIN.  Ah!  Now  you  see  what  an  advantage  is 
possessed  by  us  poets !  I  have  him  always  within  the  reach 
of  my  verses.  Oh !  What  a  terrible  satire  I  am  thinking 
of  writing  against  him !  The  cutthroat !  Old  reprobate ! 

CAPTAIN.  But  you  say  your  master  was  not  so  much  as 
even  wounded  ? 

CRISPIN.  It  might  have  killed  him  just  the  same.  Imagine ! 
Set  upon  by  a  dozen  ruffians  absolutely  without  warning .... 
Thanks,  though,  to  his  bravery,  to  his  skill,  to  my  cries.  .  .  . 

HARLEQUIN.  Do  you  say  that  it  happened  at  night  as 
your  master  was  talking  to  Silvia  over  the  wall  of  her  garden  ? 

CRISPIN.  Naturally,  my  master  had  already  been  advised 
of  what  might  happen.  But  you  know  what  sort  of  man  he 
is.  He  is  not  a  person  to  be  deterred  by  anything. 

CAPTAIN.  He  ought  to  have  notified  us,  however. 

HARLEQUIN.  He  ought,  certainly,  to  have  notified  the 
83 


84  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST        ACT  m 

Captain.  He  would  have  been  delighted  to  have  lent  his 
aid. 

CRISPIN.  You  know  what  my  master  is.  He  is  a  host  in 
himself. 

CAPTAIN.  But  you  say  that  he  caught  one  of  the  ruffians 
by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  the  rascal  confessed  that  it  had 
all  been  planned  and  arranged  by  Signor  Polichinelle  before- 
hand so  as  to  rid  himself  of  your  master? 

CRISPIN.  Who  else  could  have  had  any  interest  in  it? 
His  daughter  is  in  love  with  my  master;  her  father  wants 
to  marry  her  to  suit  himself.  My  master  is  opposing  his 
plans,  and  Signor  Polichinelle  has  known  all  his  life  how  to 
get  rid  of  disturbances.  Didn't  he  become  a  widower  twice 
in  a  very  short  time?  Hasn't  he  inherited  all  that  his  rela- 
tives had,  irrespective  of  age,  whether  they  were  older  or 
younger  than  he?  Everybody  knows  it;  nobody  will  say 
that  I  do  him  injustice.  Ah !  the  riches  of  Signor  Polichi- 
nelle are  an  affront  to  our  intelligence,  a  discouragement  to 
honest  labor.  A  man  like  Signor  Polichinelle  could  remain 
rich  only  among  a  base  and  degenerate  people. 

HARLEQUIN.  I  agree  with  you.  I  intend  to  say  all  this 
in  my  satire — of  course,  without  mentioning  names.  Poetry 
does  not  admit  of  such  license. 

CRISPIN.  Much  good,  then,  your  satire  will  do ! 

CAPTAIN.  Leave  him  to  me !  Leave  him  to  me !  I 
promise  you  if  he  once  puts  himself  within  the  reach  of  my 
sword — ah !  But  I  am  confident  that  he  never  will. 

CRISPIN.  My  master  would  never  consent  to  have  an  in- 
sult offered  to  Signor  Polichinelle.  After  all,  he  is  Silvia's 
father.  The  point  is  to  let  people  in  the  city  understand 
that  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  assassinate  my  master. 
Is  that  old  fox  to  be  allowed  to  stifle  the  honest  affection, 
the  generous  passion  of  his  daughter  ?  It  is  impossible. 


ACT  m        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  85 

HARLEQUIN.  It  is  impossible.     Love  will  find  a  way. 

CRISPIN.  If  my  master  had  been  some  impecunious  beg- 
gar. . .  .  Tell  me,  isn't  Signer  Polichinelle  the  one  who 
ought  to  be  congratulated  that  my  master  has  condescended 
to  fall  in  love  with  his  daughter,  and  is  willing  to  accept 
him  for  his  father-in-law  ? — my  master,  who  has  rejected  the 
advances  of  so  many  damsels  of  high  degree;  my  master, 
for  whom  over  four  princesses  have  committed  I  know  not 
how  many  absurdities!  But  who  is  here?  [Looking  toward 
the  right]  Ah,  Columbine !  Come  in,  my  beautiful  Colum- 
bine! Do  not  be  afraid.  [COLUMBINE  enters  from  the  right] 
We  are  all  your  friends,  and  our  mutual  friendship  will  pro- 
tect you  from  our  mutual  admiration. 

COLUMBINE.  Dofia  Sirena  has  sent  me  for  news  of  your 
master.  It  was  scarcely  day  when  Silvia  came  to  our  house 
and  confided  everything  that  had  happened  to  my  mistress. 
She  says  that  she  will  never  return  to  her  father,  nor  leave 
my  mistress,  unless  it  is  to  become  the  bride  of  Signor 
Leander. 

CRISPIN.  Does  she  say  that  ?  O,  noble  girl !  O,  constant, 
true-hearted  lover ! 

HARLEQUIN.  What  an  epithalamium  I  shall  write  for  their 
wedding ! 

COLUMBINE.  Silvia  is  positive  that  Leander  is  wounded. 
She  heard  the  clash  of  swords  beneath  the  balcony,  your 
cries  for  help;  then  she  fell  senseless  and  they  found  her  in 
a  swoon  at  daybreak.  Tell  me  how  Signor  Leander  is,  for 
she  is  beside  herself  with  anxiety  to  hear,  and  my  lady  also 
is  much  distressed. 

CRISPIN.  Tell  her  that  my  master  escaped  with  his  life 
only  through  the  unutterable  power  of  love.  Tell  her  that 
he  is  dying  now  only  from  the  incurable  wounds  of  love. 
Tell  her  that  to  the  last.  . .  .  [Seeing  LEANDER  approach]  Ah, 


86  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  m 

but  here  he  is  himself,  and  he  will  be  abk  \o  give  you  later 
news  than  I. 

LEANDER  enters. 

CAPTAIN.  [Embracing  him]  My  dear,  good  friend ! 

HARLEQUIN.  [Embracing  him]  My  friend  and  master ! 

COLUMBINE.  Ah,  Signor  Leander,  what  happiness !  You 
are  safe! 

LEANDER.  What?    How  did  you  know? 

CRISPIN.  Nothing  else  is  talked  about  in  the  city.  People 
gather  in  groups  in  the  squares  murmuring  vengeance  and 
venting  imprecations  upon  Signor  Polichinelle. 

LEANDER.  What  is  this? 

CAPTAIN.  He  had  better  not  dare  to  attempt  your  life  a 
second  time. 

HARLEQUIN.  He  had  better  not  dare  to  attempt  to  arrest 
the  true  course  of  your  love. 

COLUMBINE.  It  would  be  useless.  Silvia  is  in  my  mistress's 
house  and  she  swears  that  she  will  leave  it  only  to  become 
your  bride. 

LEANDER.  Silvia  in  your  house?     But  her  father. . . . 

COLUMBINE.  Signor  Polichinelle  has  all  he  can  do  to  look 
after  himself. 

CAPTAIN.  What  ?  I  knew  that  man  would  be  up  to  some- 
thing. Oh,  of  what  base  uses  money  is  capable ! 

HARLEQUIN.  It  is  capable  of  everything  but  love;  of  that 
it  is  incapable. 

COLUMBINE.  He  tried  to  have  you  assassinated  dishonor- 
ably in  the  dark. 

CRISPIN.  By  twelve  cutthroats.  Twelve !  I  counted 
them. 

LEANDER.  I  made  out  only  three  or  four. 

CRISPIN.  My  master  will  end  by  telling  you  that  there 
was  no  danger  so  as  not  to  receive  credit  for  his  coolness  and 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  87 

his  bravery — but  I  saw  it.  There  were  twelve;  twelve  armed 
to  the  teeth,  prepared  to  do  murder.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  he  could  escape  with  his  life. 

COLUMBINE.  I  must  run  and  calm  Silvia  and  my  mistress. 

CRISPIN.  Listen,  Columbine.  As  to  Silvia — wouldn't  it 
be  as  well,  perhaps,  not  to  calm  her? 

COLUMBINE.  Leave  that  to  my  mistress.  Silvia  is  con- 
vinced that  your  master  is  dead,  and  although  Dona  Sirena 
is  making  the  most  unheard-of  efforts  to  console  her,  it  will 
not  be  long  before  she  is  here  in  spite  of  the  consequences. 

CRISPIN.  I  ought  to  have  known  of  what  your  mistress 
was  capable. 

CAPTAIN.  We  must  be  going,  too;  there  is  nothing  here 
that  we  can  do.  The  point  is  to  arouse  the  indignation  of 
the  people  against  Signor  Polichinelle. 

HARLEQUIN.  We  shall  stone  his  house;  we  shall  raise  the 
whole  city.  Until  to-day  not  a  single  man  has  dared  to  lift 
his  hand  against  him;  to-day  we  will  all  dare  to  do  it  together. 
There  is  an  uplift,  a  moral  earnestness  in  a  crowd. 

COLUMBINE.  He  will  come  creeping  on  his  knees  and  beg 
you  to  accept  his  daughter  as  your  wife. 

CRISPIN.  Yes,  yes,  he  will  indeed !  Run,  friends,  run ! 
The  life  of  my  master  is  not  secure.  A  man  who  has  once 
made  up  his  mind  to  assassinate  him  is  not  likely  to  be  turned 
aside  for  a  trifle. 

CAPTAIN.  Have  no  fear,  my  good  friend. 

HARLEQUIN.  My  friend  and  master ! 

COLUMBINE.  Signor  Leander ! 

LEANDER.  Thanks  to  you  all,  my  friends.  My  loyal 
friends ! 

All  go  out  but  LEANDER  and  CRISPIN. 

LEANDER.  What  is  this,  Crispin?  What  are  you  trying 
to  do?  Where  do  you  expect  to  come  out  with  all  your 


88  THE   BONDS   OF  INTEREST        ACT  m 

lies  ?  Do  you  know  what  I  believe  ?  You  paid  those  fellows 
yourself;  it  was  your  idea.  I  should  have  got  off  badly 
enough  among  so  many  if  they  had  been  in  earnest. 

CRISPIN.  Have  you  the  temerity  to  reproach  me  when  I 
precipitate  the  fulfilment  of  your  desires  so  skilfully? 

LEANDER.  No,  Crispin,  no.  You  know  you  do  not.  I 
love  Silvia.  I  am  resolved:  I  shall  never  win  her  love 
through  deception,  come  what  may. 

CRISPIN.  You  know  very  well,  then,  what  will  come.  Do 
you  call  it  love  to  sit  down  and  resign  yourself  to  losing  what 
you  love  for  the  sake  of  these  quibbles  of  conscience  ?  Silvia 
herself  would  not  thank  you  for  it. 

LEANDER.  What  do  you  mean?  If  she  once  learns  who 
I  am .... 

CRISPIN.  By  the  time  she  finds  out  you  will  no  longer  be 
the  one  that  you  are.  You  will  be  her  husband  then,  her 
beloved  husband,  who  is  everything  that  is  noble  and  faith- 
ful and  true,  and  whatever  else  you  like  besides,  or  that  her 
heart  desires.  Once  you  are  master  of  her  heart — and  her 
fortune — will  you  not  be  a  complete  and  perfect  gentleman  ? 
You  will  not  be  like  Signer  Polichinelle,  who,  with  all  his 
wealth  which  permits  him  so  many  luxuries,  has  not  yet 
been  able  to  permit  himself  the  luxury  of  being  honest. 
Deceit  is  natural  to  him,  but  with  you  it  was  only  necessity. 
If  you  had  not  had  me  at  your  side  you  would  have  starved 
to  death  before  this  out  of  pure  conscientiousness.  Ah !  do 
you  suppose  that  if  I  had  thought  for  one  moment  that  you 
were  a  man  of  another  sort,  I  would  have  been  satisfied  to 
devote  your  abilities  to  love?  No,  I  would  have  put  you 
into  politics,  and  not  merely  the  fortune  of  Signor  Polichinelle 
would  have  been  ours,  but  a  chastened  and  admiring  world. 
But  you  are  not  ambitious.  You  will  be  satisfied  to  be  happy. 

LEANDER.  But  can't  you  see  that  no  good,  no  happiness, 


ACT  in        THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  89 

can  come  out  of  this  ?  If  I  could  lie  so  as  to  make  her  love 
me  and  in  that  way  become  rich,  then  it  could  only  be 
because  I  did  not  love.  And  if  I  did  not  love,  then  how 
could  I  be  happy?  And  if  I  love,  how  can  I  lie? 

CRISPIN.  Don't  lie,  then.  Love,  love  passionately,  en- 
tirely, with  your  whole  heart  and  soul.  Put  your  love  be- 
fore everything  else  upon  earth.  Guard  and  protect  it.  A 
lover  does  not  lie  when  he  keeps  to  himself  what  he  thinks 
might  prejudice  the  blind  affection  of  his  mistress. 

LEANDER.  These  are  subtleties,  Crispin. 

CRISPIN.  Which  you  would  have  known  all  about  before 
if  you  had  really  been  in  love.  Love  is  all  subtleties  and  the 
greatest  subtlety  of  them  all  is  not  that  lovers  deceive  others 
— it  is  that  they  can  so  easily  deceive  themselves. 

LEANDER.  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  Crispin.  I  am  not  one 
of  those  men  who,  when  they  have  sold  their  conscience, 
think  that  they  have  also  been  able  to  dispose  of  their  intel- 
ligence as  well. 

CRISPIN.  That  is  the  reason  I  said  you  would  never  make 
a  good  politician.  You  are  right.  For  the  intelligence  is 
the  conscience  of  truth,  and  the  man  who  parts  with  that 
among  the  lies  of  this  life  is  as  one  who  has  lost  himself. 
He  is  without  compass  or  sail.  He  will  never  be  able  to  find 
himself  again,  nor  know  himself,  but  become  in  all  his  being 
just  one  more  living  lie. 

LEANDER.  Where  did  you  learn  all  these  things,  Crispin? 

CRISPIN.  I  meditated  a  little  while  in  the  galleys,  where 
this  conscience  of  my  intelligence  accused  me  of  having  been 
more  of  a  fool  than  a  knave.  If  I  had  had  more  knavery 
and  less  stupidity,  instead  of  rowing  I  might  have  commanded 
the  ship.  So  I  swore  never  again  to  return  to  the  oar.  You 
can  see  now  what  I  am  willing  to  do  for  your  sake  since  I 
am  on  the  point  of  breaking  my  oath. 


90  THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST        ACT  m 

LEANDER.  In  what  way? 

CRISPIN.  Our /situation  has  become  desperate.  We  have 
exhausted  our  credit,  and  our  dupes  begin  to  demand  some- 
thing more  substantial  than  talk:  the  innkeeper  who  enter- 
tained us  so  long  with  such  munificence,  expecting  that  you 
would  receive  your  remittances;  Signor  Pantaloon,  who, 
hearing  of  the  credit  extended  by  the  innkeeper,  advanced 
us  whatever  was  necessary  to  install  us  sumptuously  in  this 
house;  tradesmen  of  every  description,  who  did  not  hesitate 
to  provide  us  with  every  luxury,  dazzled  by  such  display; 
Dona  Sirena  herself,  who  has  lent  us  her  invaluable  good 
offices  in  your  love  affair — they  have  all  only  asked  what  was 
reasonable;  it  would  be  unjust  to  expect  more  of  them  or  to 
complain  of  such  delightful  people.  The  name  of  this  fair  city 
shall  ever  be  engraven  upon  my  heart  in  letters  of  gokl. 
From  this  hour  I  claim  it  as  my  adopted  mother  !  But  more 
than  this,  have  you  forgotten  that  they  have  been  searching 
for  us  in  other  parts  and  following  on  our  heels?  Can  it 
be  that  all  those  glorious  exploits  of  Mantua  and  Florence 
have  been  forgotten?  Don't  you  recall  that  famous  law- 
suit in  Bologna?  Three  thousand  two  hundred  pages  of 
testimony  already  admitted  against  us  before  we  withdrew 
in  alarm  at  the  sight  of  such  prodigious  expansive  ability ! 
Do  you  imagine  that  it  has  not  continued  to  grow  under  the 
pen  of  that  learned  doctor  and  jurist,  who  has  taken  it  under 
his  wing?  How  many  whereases  and  therefores  must  there 
now  be  therefore,  whereas  they  are  all  there  for  no  good  ? 
Do  you  still  doubt?  Do  you  still  hesitate  and  reprove  me 
because  I  give  the  battle  to-day  which  is  to  decide  our  fate 
forever  at  a  single  blow? 

LEANDER.  Let  us  fly ! 

CRISPIN.  No  !  Let  the  despairing  fly  !  This  day  decides. 
We  challenge  fortune.  I  have  given  you  love;  give  me  life! 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  91 

LEANDER.  But  how  can  we  save  ourselves?  What  can 
I  do  ?  Tell  me. 

CRISPIN.  Nothing  yet.  It  will  be  enough  to  accept  what 
others  offer.  We  have  intertwined  ourselves  with  the  in- 
terests of  many,  and  the  bonds  of  interest  will  prove  our 
salvation. 

DONA  SIRENA  enters. 

SIRENA.  Have  I  your  permission,  Signer  Leander? 

LEANDER.  Dona  Sirena!     What?     You  in  my  house? 

SIRENA.  I  am  conscious  of  the  risk  I  am  running — the 
gossip  of  evil  tongues.  What?  Dona  Sirena  in  the  house 
of  a  young  and  gallant  gentleman  ? 

CRISPIN.  My  master  will  know  how  to  avoid  all  cause  of 
scandal,  if  any  indeed  could  attach  to  your  name. 

SIRENA.  Your  master  ?  I  would  not  trust  him.  Men  are 
so  boastful !  But  it  is  idle  to  anticipate.  What,  sir,  is  this 
talk  about  an  attempt  to  kill  you  last  night?  I  have  not 
heard  another  thing  since  I  got  up  in  the  morning.  And 
Silvia !  The  poor  child !  How  she  loves  you !  I  would 
give  a  great  deal  to  know  what  it  was  that  you  did  to  make 
her  fall  in  love  with  you  like  that. 

CRISPIN.  My  master  feels  that  it  was  what  you  did.  He 
owes  it  all  to  you. 

SIRENA.  I  should  be  the  last  one  to  deny  that  he  owes 
me  anything.  I  have  always  tried  to  speak  well  of  him — a 
thing  I  had  no  right  to  do,  not  knowing  him  sufficiently.  I 
have  gone  to  great  lengths  in  his  service.  Now  if  you  are 
false  to  your  promise.  .  .  . 

CRISPIN.  You  do  not  doubt  my  master?  Have  you  not 
the  papers  signed  in  his  own  hand? 

SIRENA.  The  hand  is  a  good  one  and  so  is  the  name.  I 
don't  bother  about  them.  I  know  what  it  is  to  trust,  and  I 
know  that  Signor  Leander  will  pay  me  what  he  owes.  But 


92  THE   BONUS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  in 

to-day  has  been  a  bitter  day  for  me,  and  if  you  could  let 
me  have  to-day  one-half  of  what  you  have  promised,  I 
would  willingly  forego  the  other  half. 

CRISPIN.  To-day,  do  you  say? 

SIRENA.  A  day  of  tribulation  !  And  what  makes  it  worse, 
it  is  twenty  years  ago  to-day  that  my  second  husband  died, 
who  was  my  first — yes,  my  only  love. 

CRISPIN.  May  he  rest  in  peace  with  all  the  honors  of  the 
first! 

SIRENA.  The  first  was  forced  upon  me  by  my  father.  I 
never  loved  him,  but  in  spite  of  it  he  insisted  upon  being 
faithful  to  me. 

CRISPIN.  What  knowledge  you  have  of  men,  Dona  Sirena ! 

SIRENA.  But  let  us  leave  these  recollections,  which  are 
depressing,  and  turn  to  hope.  Would  you  believe  it?  Sil- 
via insisted  upon  coming  with  me. 

LEANDER.  Here?     To  this  house? 

SIRENA.  Where  do  you  suppose  it  was  that  she  insisted 
upon  coming?  WThat  do  you  say  to  that?  What  would 
Signor  Polichinelle  say?  With  all  the  city  roused  against 
him,  there  would  be  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  have  you 
marry. 

LEANDER.  No,  no!    Don't  let  her  come. . . . 

CRISPIN.  Hush !  You  know  my  master  has  a  way  of  not 
saying  what  he  means. 

SIRENA.  I  know.  What  would  he  give  to  see  Silvia  at  his 
side,  never  to  be  separated  from  him  more? 

CRISPIN.  What  would  he  give?  You  don't  know  what  he 
would  give ! 

SIRENA.  That  is  the  reason  I  ask. 

CRISPIN.  Ah,  Dona  Sirena !  If  my  master  becomes  the 
husband  of  Silvia  to-day,  to-day  he  will  pay  you  everything 
that  he  has  promised  you. 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  93 

SIREN  A.  And  if  he  does  not? 

CRISPIN.  Then  you  lose  everything.     Suit  yourself. 

LEANDER.  Silence,  Crispin,  silence !  Enough !  I  cannot 
submit  to  have  my  love  treated  as  a  bargain.  Go,  Dona 
Sirena !  Say  to  Silvia  that  she  must  return  to  her  father's 
house,  that  under  no  circumstances  is  she  ever  to  enter 
mine;  that  she  must  forget  me  forever.  I  shall  fly  and  hide 
myself  in  the  desert  places  of  the  earth,  where  no  man  shall 
see  me,  no,  nor  so  much  as  know  my  name.  My  name?  I 
wonder — have  I  a  name? 

CRISPIN.  Will  you  be  silent? 

SIRENA.  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  What  paroxysm 
is  this  ?  Return  to  your  senses !  Come  to  your  proper 
mind !  How  ?  Renounce  so  glorious  an  enterprise  for 
nothing?  You  are  not  the  only  person  who  is  to  be  con- 
sidered. Remember  that  there  are  others  who  have  put 
their  confidence  in  you.  A  lady  of  quality  who  has  exposed 
herself  for  your  sake  is  not  to  be  betrayed  with  impunity. 
You  will  do  no  such  thing.  You  will  not  be  so  foolish. 
You  will  marry  Silvia  or  there  will  be  one  who  will  find  a 
way  to  bring  you  to  a  reckoning  for  all  your  impostures.  I 
am  not  so  defenseless  in  the  world  as  you  may  think,  Signer 
Leander. 

CRISPIN.  Dona  Sirena  is  right.  But  believe  me,  this  fit 
of  my  master's — he  is  offended  by  your  reproaches,  your 
want  of  confidence. 

SIRENA.  I  don't  want  confidence  in  your  master.  And  I 
might  as  well  say  it — I  don't  want  confidence  in  Signer 
Polichinelle.  He  is  not  a  man  to  be  trifled  with,  either. 
After  the  outcry  which  you  raised  against  him  by  your 
stratagem  of  last  night 

CRISPIN.  Stratagem,  did  you  say? 

SIRENA.  Bah!    Everybody  knows  it.     One  of  the  rascals 


94  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  in 

was  a  relative  of  mine,  and  among  the  others  I  had  con- 
nections. Very  well,  sirs,  very  well !  Signer  Polichinelle 
has  not  been  asleep.  It  is  said  in  the  city  that  he  has  given 
information  as  to  who  you  are  to  Justice,  and  on  what 
grounds  you  may  be  apprehended.  It  is  said  that  a  process 
has  arrived  to-day  from  Bologna 

CBISPIN.  And  a  devil  of  a  doctor  with  it?  Three  thou- 
sand nine  hundred  folios.  . .  . 

SIBENA.  So  it  is  said  and  on  good  authority.  You  see 
that  there  is  no  time  to  lose. 

CRISPIN.  Who  is  losing  and  who  is  wasting  time  but  you  ? 
Return,  return  at  once  to  your  house !  Say  to  Silvia 

SIRENA.  Silvia?  Silvia  is  here.  She  came  along  with 
me  and  Columbine  as  one  of  the  attendants  in  my  train. 
She  is  waiting  in  the  antechamber.  I  told  her  that  you 
were  wounded  horribly. 

LEANDER.  Oh,  my  Silvia ! 

SIRENA.  She  has  reconciled  herself  to  your  death.  She 
hopes  for  nothing  else.  She  expects  nothing  else.  She  thinks 
nothing  of  what  she  risks  in  coming  here  to  see  you.  Well  ? 
Are  we  friends? 

CRISPIN.  You   are  adorable!  [To  LEANDER]  Quick!     Lie 

down  here.     Stretch  yourself  out  in  this  chair.     Seem  sick, 

suffer,  faint — be  downhearted.     And  remember,  if  I  am  not 

satisfied  with  the  appearance,  I  will  substitute  the  reality ! 

[Threatening  him  and  forcing  him  into  a  chair. 

LEANDER.  Yes,  I  am  in  your  power !  I  see  it,  I  know  it ! 
But  Silvia  shall  never  be !  Yes,  let  me  see  her.  Tell  her 
to  come  in.  I  shall  save  her  in  spite  of  you,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, in  spite  even  of  herself ! 

CRISPIN.  You  know  my  master  has  a  way  of  not  meaning 
what  he  says, 


ACT  in        THE  BONDS  OP  INTEREST  95 

SIEENA.  I  never  thought  him  such  a  fool.     Come  with  me. 

[She  goes  out  with  CRISPIN. 
SILVIA  enters. 

LEANDEK.  Silvia !    My  Silvia ! 

SILVIA.  But  aren't  you  wounded? 

LEANDER.  No,  don't  you  see?  It  was  a  lie,  another  lie 
to  bring  you  here.  But  don't  be  afraid.  Your  father  will 
come  soon;  soon  you  will  leave  this  house  with  him  without 
having  any  cause  to  reproach  me.  . . .  Ah !  None  but  that 
I  have  disturbed  the  serenity  of  your  soul  with  an  illusion 
of  love  which  will  be  to  you  in  the  future  no  more  than  the 
remembrance  of  a  dark  and  evil  dream ! 

SILVIA.  But  Leander?     Then  your  love  was  not  real? 

LEANDER.  My  love  was,  yes.  That  is  why  I  could  not 
deceive  you.  Leave  this  place  at  once — before  any  but  those 
who  brought  you  here  discover  that  you  came. 

SILVIA.  What  are  you  afraid  of?  Am  I  not  safe  in  your 
house  ?  I  was  not  afraid  to  come.  What  harm  can  happen 
to  me  at  your  side? 

LEANDER.  You  are  right.  None !  My  love  will  protect 
you  even  from  your  innocence. 

SILVIA.  I  can  never  go  back  to  my  father's  house — not 
after  the  horrible  thing  which  he  did  last  night. 

LEANDER.  No,  Silvia,  do  not  blame  your  father.  It  was 
not  his  fault;  it  was  another  deception,  another  lie.  Fly 
from  me;  forget  this  miserable  adventurer,  this  nameless 
outcast,  a  fugitive  from  justice.  . .  . 

SILVIA.  No,  it  isn't  true.  No!  It  is  the  conduct  of  my 
father  which  makes  me  unworthy  of  your  love.  That  is 
what  it  is.  I  see  it  all  now.  I  understand.  Ay,  for  me ! 

LEANDER.  Silvia!     My   Silvia!    How   cruel   your   sweet 
words  are !     How  cruel  this  noble  confidence  of  your  heart, 
so  innocent  of  evil  and  of  life ! 
CRISPIN  enters,  running. 


96  THE   BONDS   OF   INTEREST        ACT  in 

CRISPIN.  Master  !  Master  !  Signer  Polichinelle  is  com- 
ing ! 

SILVIA.  My  father! 

LEANDER.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  shall  lead  you  to  him  with 
my  own  hand. 

CRISPIN.  But  he  is  not  coming  alone.  There  is  a  great 
crowd  with  him;  the  officers  of  justice.  .  .  . 

LEANDER.  What  ?  Ah !  If  they  should  find  you  here  ? 
In  my  house  !  [To  CRISPIN]  I  see  it  all  now.  You  have  told 
them.  But  you  shall  not  succeed  in  your  design ! 

CRISPIN.  I  ?  No.  Certainly  not !  For  this  time  this  is 
in  earnest  and  nothing  can  save  us  now. 

LEANDER.  No,  not  us.  Nor  shall  I  try.  But  her.  .  .  . 
Yes !  Hide  her,  conceal  her !  We  must  secrete  her  here. 

SILVIA.  But  you? 

LEANDER.  Have  no  fear.  Quick !  They  are  on  the 
stair.  [He  hides  SILVIA  in  a  room  at  the  rear,  meanwhile  saying 
to  CRISPIN]  See  what  these  fellows  want.  On  your  life  let 
no  man  set  his  foot  within  this  room  after  I  am  gone !  .  . . . 
The  game  is  up !  It  is  the  end  for  me. 

[He  runs  to  the  window. 

CRISPIN.  [Holding  him  back]  Master !  Master !  Hold ! 
Control  yourself.  Come  to  your  senses.  Don't  throw  your 
life  away ! 

LEANDER.  I  am  not  throwing  my  life  away. . . .  There  is 
no  escape.  . .  .1  am  saving  her. . . . 

He  climbs  through  the  window  and  rapidly  up  outside 
and  disappears. 

CRISPIN.  Master!  Master!  H'm!  Not  so  bad  after 
all.  I  thought  he  was  going  to  dash  himself  to  pieces  on  the 
ground.  Instead  he  has  climbed  higher.  .  .  .  There  is  hope 
yet — he  may  yet  learn  to  fly.  It  is  his  region,  the  clouds. . . . 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  97 

Now  I  to  mine,  the  firm  ground.     And  more  need  than  ever 
that  I  should  make  certain  that  it  is  solid  beneath  my  feet. 

[He  seats  himself  complacently  in  an  armchair. 
POLICHINELLE.  [Without,  to  those  wJio  are  with  him]  Guard 
the  doors  !     Let  no  man  escape  !     No,  nor  woman  either .... 
Nor  dog  nor  cat ! 

INNKEEPER.  Where  are  they?  Where  are  these  bandits? 
These  assassins  ? 

PANTALOON.  Justice !    Justice !    My  money !    My  money ! 
SIGNOR  POLICHINELLE,  the  INNKEEPER,  SIGNOR  PAN- 
TALOON, the  CAPTAIN,  HARLEQUIN,  the  DOCTOR,  the 
SECRETARY,  and  two  CONSTABLES  enter,  bearing  in 
their  arms  enormous  scrolls  and  protocols,  or  papers 
of  the  suit.     All  enter  from  the  right  in  the  order  named. 
The  DOCTOR  and  the  SECRETARY  pass  at  once  to  the 
table  and  prepare,  to  take  testimony.     Such  rolls  and 
papers   as  cannot  be  accommodated  upon  the   table 
the  two  CONSTABLES  retain  in  their  hands,  remain- 
ing standing  for  that  purpose  at  the  rear. 
CAPTAIN.  But  can  this  be  possible,  Crispin? 
HARLEQUIN.  Is  it  possible  that  such  a  thing  can  be? 
PANTALOON.  Justice !    Justice !    My  money !    My  money ! 
INNKEEPER.  Seize  them !    Put  them  in  irons ! 
PANTALOON.  Don't   let   them   escape !    Don't   let   them 
escape ! 

CRISPIN.  What?  How  is  this?  Who  dares  to  desecrate 
with  impious  clamor  the  house  of  a  gentleman  and  a  cavalier  ? 
Oh,  you  may  congratulate  yourselves  that  my  master  is 
not  at  home ! 

PANTALOON.  Silence!  Silence!  For  you  are  his  accom- 
plice and  you  will  be  held  to  answer  to  the  same  reckoning 
as  he. 


98  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  m 

INNKEEPER.  Accomplice,  did  you  say?  As  guilty  as  his 
pretended  master ! — for  he  was  the  one  who  deceived  me. 

CAPTAIN.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Crispin? 

HARLEQUIN.  Is  there  any  truth  in  what  these  people  say  ? 

POLICHINELLE.  What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself  now, 
Crispin?  You  thought  you  were  a  clever  rogue  to  cut  up 
your  capers  with  me.  I  tried  to  murder  your  master,  did 
I?  I  am  an  old  miser  who  is  battening  on  his  daughter's 
heart?  All  the  city  is  stirred  up  against  me,  is  it,  heaping 
me  with  insults?  Well,  we  shall  see. 

PANTALOON.  Leave  him  to  us,  Signor  Polichinelle,  for  this 
is  our  affair.  After  all,  you  have  lost  nothing.  But  I — all 
my  wealth  which  I  lent  him  without  security.  I  am  ruined 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  What  will  become  of  me? 

INNKEEPER.  What  will  become  of  me,  tell  me  that,  when 
I  spent  what  I  never  had  and  even  ran  into  debt  so  that  he 
might  be  served — as  I  thought — in  a  manner  befitting  his 
station?  It  was  my  destruction,  my  ruin. 

CAPTAIN.  We  too  were  horribly  deceived.  What  will  be 
said  of  me  when  it  is  known  that  I  have  put  my  sword  at 
the  disposition  of  an  adventurer? 

HARLEQUIN.  And  of  me,  when  I  have  dedicated  sonnet 
after  sonnet  to  his  praise,  just  as  if  he  had  been  any  ordinary 
gentleman  ? 

POLICHINELLE.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

PANTALOON.  Yes,  laugh,  laugh,  that  is  right.  You  have 
lost  nothing. 

INNKEEPER.  Nobody  robbed  you. 

PANTALOON.  To  work!  To  work!  Where  is  the  other 
villain  ? 

INNKEEPER.  Better  see  what  there  is  in  the  house  first. 

CRISPIN.  Slowly,  slowly,  gentlemen.  If  you  advance  one 
other  step [Threatening  them  with  his  sword. 


ACT  m        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  99 

PANTALOON.  What  ?  You  threaten  us  ?  Again  ?  Is  such 
a  thing  to  be  endured  ?  Justice !  Justice ! 

INNKEEPER.  Yes,  justice! 

DOCTOR.  Gentlemen,  unless  you  listen  to  me  we  shall  get 
nowhere.  No  man  may  take  justice  into  his  own  hands, 
inasmuch  as  justice  is  not  haste  nor  oppression  nor  ven- 
geance nor  act  of  malice.  Summum  jus,  summum  injuria; 
the  more  wrong,  the  more  justice.  Justice  is  all  wisdom, 
and  wisdom  is  all  order,  and  order  is  all  reason,  and  reason 
is  all  procedure,  and  procedure  is  all  logic.  Barbara,  Cela- 
rent,  Darii,  Ferio,  Baralipton,  deposit  all  your  wrongs  and 
all  your  disputations  with  me,  for  if  they  are  to  be  of  any 
validity  they  must  all  form  a  part  of  this  process  which  I 
have  brought  in  these  protocols  with  me. 

CRISPIN.  The  devil,  you  say!  Hasn't  it  grown  enough 
already  ? 

DOCTOR.  Herein  are  set  down  and  inscribed  divers  other 
offenses  of  these  defendants,  whereunto  must  be  added  and 
conjoined  each  and  every  one  of  those  of  which  you  may 
accuse  them  now.  And  I  must  be  the  advocate  in  all  of 
them,  for  that  is  the  only  way  in  which  it  will  be  possible  for 
you  to  obtain  satisfaction  and  justice.  Write,  Signer  Secre- 
tary, and  let  the  said  complainants  depose. 

PANTALOON.  It  might  be  better  to  settle  our  differences 
among  ourselves.  You  know  what  justice  is. 

INNKEEPER.  Write  nothing.  It  will  only  be  making  the 
white  black,  and  in  the  end  we  shall  be  left  without  our 
money  and  these  rogues  without  punishment. 

PANTALOON.  Exactly.  My  money !  My  money !  And 
justice  afterward. 

DOCTOR.  You  unlearned,  you  uncivil,  you  ignorant  gen- 
eration !  What  do  you  know  of  justice  ?  It  is  not  enough 
for  you  to  say  that  you  have  suffered  a  wrong,  unless  there 


100  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  m 

be  plainly  apparent  therein  an  intention  to  make  you  suffer 
that  wrong;  that  is  to  say,  fraud  or  deceit,  which  are  not  the 
same,  although  they  are  confounded  in  the  popular  accepta- 
tion. But  I  say  unto  you  that  only  in  the  single  case 

PANTALOON.  Enough  !  Enough !  You  will  end  by  telling 
us  that  we  are  the  guilty  ones. 

DOCTOR.  What  else  am  I  to  think  when  you  persist  in 
denying  such  a  plain  and  obvious  fact? 

INNKEEPER.  I  like  that.  Good !  We  were  robbed.  Do 
you  want  any  plainer  or  more  obvious  fact? 

DOCTOR.  Know,  then,  that  robbery  is  not  the  same  as 
theft,  much  less  is  it  the  same  as  fraud  or  deceit,  which 
again  are  not  the  same  as  aforesaid.  From  the  laws  of  the 
Twelve  Tables  down  to  Justinian,  to  Tribonian,  to  Emilian, 
to  Triberian.  . .  . 

PANTALOON.  We  shall  be  cheated  out  of  our  money. 
There  is  no  one  who  can  reason  me  out  of  that. 

POLICHINELLE.  The  Signer  Doctor  is  right.  We  can 
safely  leave  the  matter  to  him  and  everything  will  be  at- 
tended to  in  the  process. 

DOCTOR.  Then  write,  Signor  Secretary,  write. 

CRISPIN.  Will  any  one  listen  to  me? 

PANTALOON.  No  one,  no  one.  Let  that  rascal  be  quiet! 
Silence  for  that  villain  ! 

INNKEEPER.  You  will  have  a  chance  to  talk  soon  enough 
when  you  don't  want  to. 

DOCTOR.  He  will  speak  at  the  proper  moment,  for  justice 
requires  that  everybody  should  be  afforded  an  opportunity 
to  talk.  Write,  write:  In  the  city  of .  . .  .in  the  matter  of.  ... 
But  it  would  certainly  not  be  amiss  if  we  proceeded  first  to 
an  inventory  of  whatever  there  is  in  the  house. 

CRISPIN.  [Before  the  door]  It  certainly  would  be  a  miss .... 

DOCTOR.  Thence  to  progress  to  the  deposit  of  security  on 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  101 

the  part  of  the  complainants,  so  that  there  may  be  no  ques- 
tion as  to  their  good  faith  when  they  assert  that  they  have 
suffered  a  loss.  Two  thousand  crowns  will  be  sufficient 
from  each  of  you,  to  be  secured  by  guarantees  upon  all  your 
goods  and  chattels. 

PANTALOON.  What  is  that?  Two  thousand  crowns  from 
us? 

DOCTOR.  I  ought  to  make  it  eight;  however,  as  you  are 
persons  of  responsibility,  I  take  that  fact  into  account.  I 
allow  nothing  to  escape  me. 

INNKEEPER.  Hold !  And  write  no  more !  We  cannot 
submit  to  this. 

DOCTOR.  What  ?  Do  you  threaten  justice  ?  Open  a  sepa- 
rate process  for  battery  and  the  hand  of  violence  raised 
against  an  officer  of  the  law  in  full  performance  of  his  duties. 

PANTALOON.  This  man  will  be  the  ruin  of  us. 

INNKEEPER.  He  is  mad. 

DOCTOR.  What?  Do  you  call  me  a  man  and  mad? 
Speak  with  more  respect.  Write !  Write !  Open  two  more 
counts.  There  was  also  an  assault  by  word  of  mouth.  . . . 

CRISPIN.  Now  see  what  you  have  done  through  not  listen- 
ing to  me. 

PANTALOON.  Talk,  talk,  for  heaven's  sake !  Talk !  Any- 
thing would  be  better  than  what  is  happening  to  us  now. 

CRISPIN.  Then  shut  off  this  fellow,  for  the  love  of  mercy ! 
He  is  raising  up  a  mountain  with  his  protocols. 

PANTALOON.  Stop !    Stop,  I  say ! 

INNKEEPER.  Put  down  that  pen ! 

DOCTOR.  Let  no  man  dare  to  raise  his  hand. 

CRISPIN.  Signor  Captain,  then  lend  us  your  sword.  It 
also  is  the  instrument  of  justice. 

CAPTAIN.  [Going  up  to  the  table  and  delivering  a  tremendous 


102  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  m 

blow  with  his  sword  upon  the  papers  on  which  the  DOCTOR  is 
engaged]  Have  the  kindness  to  desist. 

DOCTOR.  You  see  how  ready  I  am  to  comply  with  a  rea- 
sonable request.  Suspend  the  actions.  [Thfy  stop  writing] 
There  is  a  previous  question  to  be  adjudged.  The  parties 
dispute  among  themselves.  Nevertheless  it  will  be  proper 
to  proceed  with  the  inventory .... 

PANTALOON.  No!    No! 

DOCTOR.  It  is  a  formality  which  cannot  be  waived. 

CRISPIN.  I  don't  tlu'nk  it  would  be  proper.  When  the 
proper  time  comes  you  can  write  as  much  as  you  like.  But 
let  me  have  permission  first  to  speak  for  a  moment  with 
these  honorable  gentlemen. 

DOCTOR.  If  you  wish  to  have  what  you  are  about  to  say 
recorded  as  testimony.  . .  . 

CRISPIN.  No !  By  no  means.  Not  a  single  word,  or  I 
shall  not  open  my  mouth. 

CAPTAIN.  Better  let  the  fellow  talk. 

CRISPIN.  What  shall  I  say?  What  are  you  complaining 
about?  That  you  have  lost  your  money?  What  do  you 
want  ?  To  get  it  back  ? 

PANTALOON.  Exactly !    Exactly !    My  money ! 

INNKEEPER.  Our  money ! 

•  CRISPIN.  Then  listen  to  me.  Where  do  you  suppose  that 
it  is  coming  from  when  you  insist  upon  destroying  the  credit 
of  my  master  in  this  fashion,  and  so  make  his  marriage  with 
the  daughter  of  Signor  Polichinelle  impossible?  Name  of 
Mars !  I  had  rather  deal  with  a  thousand  knaves  than  one 
fool.  See  what  you  have  done  now  and  how  you  will  be 
obliged  to  compound  with  justice  for  a  half  share  of  what 
we  owe  you — I  say  owe  you.  How  will  you  be  any  better  off 
if  you  succeed  in  sending  us  to  the  galleys  or  to  some  worse 
place?  Will  it  put  money  in  your  pockets  to  collect  the 


ACT  m        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  103 

welts  on  our  skins?  Will  you  be  richer  or  nobler  or  more 
powerful  because  we  are  ruined  ?  On  the  other  hand,  if  you 
had  not  interrupted  us  at  such  an  inopportune  moment, 
to-day,  this  very  day,  you  would  have  received  your  money 
with  interest,  which  God  knows  is  enough  to  send  you  all 
to  hang  on  the  gallows  to  remain  suspended  forever,  if  jus- 
tice were  not  in  these  hands — and  these  pens.  Now  do  as 
you  see  fit;  I  have  told  you  what  you  ought  to  do. 

DOCTOR.  They  will  remain  suspended  until  further  no- 
tice. 

CAPTAIN.  I  would  never  have  believed  it  possible  that 
then-  crimes  could  have  been  so  great. 

POLICHINELLE.  That  Crispin.  .  .  .  He  will  be  capable  of 
convincing  them. 

PANTALOON.  [To  the  INNKEEPER]  What  do  you  think  of 
this  ?  Looking  at  it  calmly .... 

INNKEEPER.  What  do  you  think? 

PANTALOON.  You  say  that  your  master  was  to  have  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  Signer  Polichinelle  to-day?  But  sup- 
pose he  refuses  to  give  his  consent? 

CRISPIN.  What  good  would  that  do  him?  His  daughter 
has  run  away  with  my  master.  All  the  world  will  soon  know 
it.  It  is  more  important  to  him  than  it  is  to  any  one  else 
not  to  have  it  known  that  his  daughter  has  thrown  herself 
away  upon  a  rapscallion,  a  man  without  character,  a  fugitive 
from  justice. 

PANTALOON.  Suppose  this  should  turn  out  to  be  true? 
What  do  you  think  ? 

INNKEEPER.  Better  not  weaken.  The  rogue  breathes  de- 
ceit. He  is  a  master. 

PANTALOON.  You  are  right.  No  one  can  tell  how  far  to 
believe  him.  Justice !  Justice ! 

CRISPIN.  I  warn  you — you  lose  everything ! 


104  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  m 

PANTALOON.  Wait ! . . . .  just  a  moment.  We  will  see.  A 
word  with  you,  Signor  Polichinelle. 

POLICHINELLE.    What  do  you  want  with  me  ? 

PANTALOON.  Suppose  that  we  had  made  a  mistake  in  this 
complaint.  Suppose  that  Signor  Leander  should  turn  out 
to  be,  after  all,  a  noble,  virtuous  gentleman,  incapable  of  the 
slightest  dishonest  thought.  . .  . 

POLICHINELLE.  W'hat  is  that?    Say  that  again. 

PANTALOON.  Suppose  that  your  daughter  was  in  love  with 
him  madly,  passionately,  even  to  the  point  where  she  had  run 
away  with  him  from  your  house? 

POLICHINELLE.  My  daughter  run  away  from  my  house 
with  that  man  ?  W7ho  says  so  ?  Show  me  the  villain ! 
WTiere  is  he? 

PANTALOON.  Don't  get  excited.    It  is  only  in  supposition. 

POLICHINELLE.  Well,  sir,  I  shall  not  tolerate  it  even  in 
supposition. 

PANTALOON.  Try  to  listen  more  calmly.  Suppose  all  this 
should  have  happened.  Wouldn't  the  best  thing  for  you 
to  do  be  to  let  them  marry? 

POLICHINELLE.  Marry?  I  would  see  them  dead  first. 
But  it  is  useless  to  consider  it.  I  see  what  you  want.  You 
are  scheming  to  recoup  yourselves  at  my  expense,  you  are 
such  rogues  yourselves.  But  it  shall  not  be !  It  shall  not 
be! 

PANTALOON.  Take  care!  We  had  better  not  talk  about 
rogues  while  you  are  present. 

INNKEEPER.  Hear!    Hear! 

POLICHINELLE.  Rogues,  rogues ! — conspiring  to  impover- 
ish me.  But  it  shall  not  be !  It  shall  not  be ! 

DOCTOR.  Have  no  fear,  Signor  Polichinelle.  Even  though 
they  should  be  dissuaded  and  abandon  their  design,  do  you 
suppose  that  this  process  will  amount  to  nothing?  Do  you 


ACTin        THE  BONDS  OF  INTEREST  105 

imagine  that  one  line  of  what  is  written  hi  it  can  ever  be 
blotted  out,  though  two  and  fifty  crimes  be  alleged  therein 
and  proved  against  them,  besides  as  many  more  which  re- 
quire no  proof? 

PANTALOON.  What  do  you  say  now,  Crispin  ? 

CRISPIN.  That  though  all  those  crimes  were  proved  three 
times  and  those  that  require  no  proof  yet  three  times  more 
than  the  others,  you  would  still  be  losing  your  money  and 
wasting  your  time,  for  we  cannot  pay  what  we  do  not  have. 

DOCTOR.  Not  at  all.  That  is  not  good  law.  For  I  have 
to  be  paid,  whatever  happens. 

CRISPIN.  Then  the  complainants  will  have  to  pay  you. 
We  shall  have  more  than  we  can  do  to  pay  our  offenses  with 
our  backs. 

DOCTOR.  The  rights  of  justice  are  inviolable,  and  the  first 
of  them  is  to  attach  in  its  interest  whatever  there  is  in  this 
house. 

PANTALOON.  But  what  good  will  that  do  us?  How  shall 
we  get  anything  ? 

INNKEEPER.  Of  course  not !    Don't  you  see  ? 

DOCTOR.  Write,  write,  for  if  we  were  to  talk  forever  we 
should  never  arrive  at  a  conclusion  which  would  be  more 
satisfactory. 

PANTALOON  AND  INNKEEPER.  No!  No!  Not  a  word! 
Not  a  word ! 

CRISPIN.  Hear  me,  first,  Signor  Doctor!  In  your  ear. . . . 
Suppose  you  were  to  be  paid  at  once,  on  the  spot  and  with- 
out the  trouble  of  all  this  writing,  your. . .  .what  is  it  that 
you  call  them? — crumbs  of  justice? 

DOCTOR.  Perquisites  of  the  law. 

CRISPIN.  Have  it  your  own  way.  What  would  you  say 
to  that  ? 

DOCTOR.  Why,  in  that  case.  . .  . 


106  THE   BONDS   OK   JNTKKKST        ACT  m 

CRISPIN.  Listen: — iny  master  will  be  rich  to-day,  influen- 
tial, if  Signer  Polichinelle  consents  to  his  marrying  his  daugh- 
ter. Remember  that  the  young  lady  is  the  only  child  of 
Signer  Polichinelle;  remember  that  my  master  will  be  mas- 
ter indeed  not  only  of  her.  .  .  .  Remember.  .  .  . 

DOCTOR.  H'm!  It  certainly  does  deserve  to  be  remem- 
bered. 

PANTALOON.  [To  CRISPIN]  What  does  he  say? 

INNKEEPER.   What  are  you  going  to  do? 

DOCTOR.  Let  me  consider.  That  fellow  clearly  is  not 
thick-witted.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  he  is  acquainted  with 
legal  precedent.  For  if  we  remember  that  the  wrong  which 
has  been  done  was  purely  a  pecuniary  one,  and  that  every 
wrong  which  can  be  redressed  in  kind  suffers  in  the  repara- 
tion the  most  fitting  punishment;  if  we  reflect  that  in  the 
barbaric  and  primitive  law  of  vengeance  it  was  written:  an 
eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  but  not  a  tooth  for 
an  eye  nor  an  eye  for  a  tooth,  so  in  the  present  instance  it 
might  be  argued  a  crown  for  a  crown  and  money  for  money. 
He  has  not  taken  your  lives.  Why  not?  The  fact  is  evi- 
dence that  he  did  not  wish  you  to  take  his  in  return.  He 
has  not  insulted  your  persons,  impugned  your  honor,  your 
reputations.  Why  not?  Plainly  because  he  was  not  will- 
ing to  submit  to  a  like  indignity  from  you.  Equity  is  the 
supremest  justice.  Equitas  justiciam  magna  est.  And  from 
the  Pandects  to  Tribonian,  including  Emilianus  Triboni- 
anus.  . . . 

PANTALOON.  Include  him.  So  long  as  we  get  our 
money.  .  .  . 

INNKEEPER.  So  long  as  he  pays  us. ... 

POLICHINELLE.  What  is  this  nonsense?  How  can  he 
pay?  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  talk? 

CRISPIN.  A  great  deal  of  use.     As  I  was  saying,  you  are 


ACT  m        THE   mNDS  OF  INTEREST  107 

all  deeply  interested  in  saving  my  master,  in  saving  both  of 
us,  for  your  own  advantage,  for  the  common  good  of  all. 
You,  so  as  not  to  lose  your  money;  the  Sign  or  Doctor  so  as 
not  to  see  all  this  vast  store  of  doctrine  go  for  nothing, 
which  he  is  heaping  up  in  those  sarcophagi  of  learning;  the 
Signor  Captain  because  everybody  knows  that  he  was  the 
friend  of  my  master,  and  it  would  not  be  creditable  to  his 
valor  to  have  it  said  that  he  had  been  the  dupe  of  an 
adventurer;  you,  Signor  Harlequin,  because  your  poetic 
dithyrambs  would  lose  all  their  merit  as  soon  as  it  became 
known  with  what  little  sense  you  composed  them;  you, 
Signor  Polichinelle,  my  dear  old  friend,  because  your  daugh- 
ter is  now,  in  the  sight  of  God  and  before  man,  Signor  Lean- 
der's  wife. 

POLICHINELLE.  You    lie!    You    lie!    Impudent    rascal! 
'Cutthroat! 

CRISPIN.  I  think  then  that  we  had  better  proceed  with 
the  inventory  of  what  there  is  in  the  house.  Write,  write, 
and  let  all  these  gentlemen  be  our  witnesses.  We  can  begin 
with  this  apartment. 

He  throws  back  the  tapestry  from  the  door  at  the  rear,  and 
SILVIA,  LEANDEB,  DONA  SIRENA,  COLUMBINE,  and 
the  WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE  appear,  forming  a  group. 

PANTALOON  AND  THE  INNKEEPER.  Silvia! 

CAPTAIN  AND  HARLEQUIN.  Together !    Both  of  them ! 

POLICHINELLE.  Is  it  possible?  What?  Are  they  all 
against  me?  My  wife  and  daughter,  too?  All,  all,  for  my 
ruin?  Seize  that  man,  these  women,  this  impostor,  or  I 
with  my  own  hand.  .  .  . 

PANTALOON.  Signor  Polichinelle,  are  you  out  of  your 
head? 

LEANDER.  [Advancing  toward  the  proscenium,  accompanied 
by  the  others]  Your  daughter  came  to  my  house  under  the 


108  THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  in 

protection  of  Dona  Sirena,  believing  that  I  was  wounded; 
and  I  ran  immediately  in  search  of  your  wife,  so  that  she  too 
might  be  present  with  her  and  protect  her.  Silvia  knows 
who  I  am,  she  knows  the  whole  story  of  my  life  of  misery  and 
wandering,  of  cheats  and  deceptions  and  lies — how  it  has 
been  utterly  vile;  and  I  am  sure  that  no  vestige  of  our  dream 
of  love  any  longer  remains  in  her  heart.  Take  her  away 
from  this  place,  take  her  away!  That  is  my  only  request 
before  I  deliver  myself  up  into  the  hands  of  justice. 

POLICHINELLE.  The  punishment  of  my  daughter  shall  be 
my  affair,  but  as  for  this  villain ....  Seize  him,  I  say  ! 

SILVIA.  Father!  If  you  do  not  save  him  it  will  be  my 
death.  I  love  him,  I  shall  love  him  always;  I  love  him  now 
more  than  I  ever  did,  because  his  heart  is  noble.  He  has 
been  cruelly  unfortunate;  and  he  might  have  made  me  his 
by  a  lie — but  he  would  not  lie. 

POLICHINELLE.  Silence!  Silence,  foolish,  unhappy  girl! 
This  is  the  result  of  the  bringing  up  of  your  mother,  of  her 
vanity,  her  hallucinations,  of  all  your  romantic  reading,  your 
music  to  the  light  of  the  moon. 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  Anything  would  be  preferable  to 
having  my  daughter  marry  a  man  like  you,  to  be  unhappy 
afterward  all  the  rest  of  her  life,  like  her  mother.  Of  what 
use  are  my  riches  to  me? 

SIRENA.  You  are  right,  Signora  Polichinelle.  Of  what 
use  are  riches  without  love? 

COLUMBINE.     The  same  use  as  love  without  riches. 

DOCTOR.  Signer  Polichinelle,  under  the  circumstances, 
the  only  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  let  them  marry. 

PANTALOON.  Or  there  will  be  a  scandal  in  the  city. 

INNKEEPER.  And  everybody  will  be  on  his  side. 

CAPTAIN.  And  we  can  never  consent  to  have  you  use  force 
ugainst  your  daughter. 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST  109 

DOCTOR.  It  will  have  to  stand  in  the  process  that  they 
1  were  surprised  here  together. 

CRISPIN.  And  after  all,  the  only  trouble  with  my  master 
was  that  he  had  no  money;  no  one  could  outdo  him  in  no- 
bility of  character;  your  grandchildren  will  be  gentlemen — 
even  if  that  quality  does  not  extend  up  to  the  grandfather. 

ALL.  Let  them  marry !    Let  them  marry ! 

PANTALOON.  Or  we  will  all  turn  upon  you. 

INNKEEPER.  And  your  history  will  be  brought  to  light — 
the  secret  story  of  your  life .... 

HARLEQUIN.  And  you  will  gain  nothing  by  that. 

SIRENA.  A  lady  begs  it  of  you  on  her  knees,  moved  to 
tears  by  the  spectacle  of  a  love  so  unusual  in  these  days. 

COLUMBINE.  Which  seems  more  like  love  in  a  story. 

ALL.  Let  them  marry  !     Let  them  marry ! 

POLICHINELLE.  Yes !  let  them  marry  in  an  evil  hour.  My 
daughter  shall  be  cut  off  without  dowry  and  without  inheri- 
tance. I  will  ruin  my  estate  rather  than  that  this  repro- 
bate .... 

DOCTOR.  You  certainly  will  not  do  anything  of  the  kind, 
Signor  Polichinelle. 

PANTALOON.  Who  ever  heard  of  such  nonsense? 

INNKEEPER.  I  shouldn't  think  of  it  for  a  moment. 

HARLEQUIN.  What  would  people  say? 

CAPTAIN.  We  could  never  consent  to  it. 

SILVIA.  No,  my  dear  father,  I  am  the  one  who  cannot  ac- 
cept anything.  I  am  the  one  who  must  share  the  poverty 
of  his  fate.  I  love  him  so. 

LEANDER.  That  is  the  only  condition  upon  which  I  can 
accept  your  love. 

All  run  toward  SILVIA  and  LEANDER. 

DOCTOR.  What  do  you  say  ?     Are  you  crazy  ? 

PANTALOON.  Preposterous  !    Absurd ! 


110  THE   BONDS  OF  INTEREST        ACT  m 

INNKEEPER.  You  are  going  to  accept  everything. 

HARLEQUIN.  You  will  be  happy  and  you  will  be  rich. 

WIFE  OF  POLICHINELLE.  What  ?  My  daughter  in  poverty  ? 
Is  this  wretch  the  hangman? 

SIRENA.  Remember  that  love  is  a  deh'cate  babe  and  able 
to  endure  but  few  privations. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  clearly  illegal.  Signor  Polichinelle,  you  will 
sign  a  munificent  donation  immediately  as  befits  a  person  of 
your  dignity  and  importance,  who  is  a  kind  and  loving  father. 
Write,  write,  Signor  Secretary,  for  this  is  something  to  which 
nobody  will  object. 

ALL.  [Except  POLICHINELLE]  Write !    Write ! 

DOCTOR.  And  you,  my  dear,  my  innocent  young  lovers, 
resign  yourselves  to  riches.  You  have  no  right  to  carry 
your  prejudices  to  an  extreme  at  which  they  become  offen- 
sive to  others. 

PANTALOON.  [To  CRISPIN]  Now  will  you  pay  us? 

CRISPIN.  Do  you  doubt  it?  But  you  will  have  to  swear 
first  that  Signor  Leander  never  owed  you  anything.  See 
how  he  is  sacrificing  himself  upon  your  account,  accepting 
this  money  which  is  repugnant  to  him. 

PANTALOON.  We  always  knew  that  he  was  a  perfect  gentle- 
man. 

INNKEEPER.  Always. 

HARLEQUIN.  We  all  believed  it. 

CAPTAIN.  And  we  shall  continue  to  maintain  our  belief. 

CRISPIN.  Now,  Doctor,  this  process ....  Do  you  suppose 
there  is  waste  space  enough  anywhere  in  the  world  for  it 
to  be  th'rown  away  upon  ? 

-  DOCTOR.  My  foresight  has  provided  for  everything.  All 
that  will  be  necessary  is  to  change  the  punctuation.  For 
example,  here  where  it  says:  "Whereas  I  depose  and  declare, 
not  without  due  sanction  of  law".  .  .  .take  out  the  comma 


ACT  in        THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST  111 

*and  it  reads:  "Whereas  I  depose  and  declare  not  without 
due  sanction  of  law."  And  here:  "Wherefore  he  is  not 
without  due  judgment  condemned".  . .  .put  in  a  comma  and 
it  reads:  "Wherefore  he  is  not,  without  due  judgment  con- 
demned". . . . 

CRISPIN.  O  excellent  comma!  O  wonderful,  0  marvel- 
lous comma !  Stupendous  Genius  and  Miracle  of  Justice ! 
Oracle  of  the  Law  !  Thou  Monster  of  Jurisprudence ! 

DOCTOR.  Now  I  can  rely  upon  the  generosity  of  your 
master. 

CRISPIN.  You  can.  Nobody  knows  better  than  you  do 
how  money  will  change  a  man. 

SECRETARY.  I  was  the  one  who  put  in  and  took  out  the 
commas. 

CRISPIN.  While  you  are  waiting  for  something  better, 
pray  accept  this  chain.  It  is  of  gold. 

SECRETARY.  H'm !    How  many  carats  fine  ? 

CRISPIN.  You  ought  to  know.  You  understand  commas 
and  carats. 

POLICHINELLE.  I  impose  only  one  condition: — that  this 
rogue  leave  your  service  forever. 

CRISPIN.  That  will  not  be  necessary,  Signor  Polichinelle. 
Do  you  suppose  that  I  am  so  poor  in  ambition  as  my  master  ? 

LEANDER.  What?  You  are  not  going  to  leave  me,  Cris- 
pin? It  will  not  be  without  sorrow  on  my  part. 

CRISPIN.  It  will  not  last  long.  I  can  be  of  no  further  use 
to  you.  With  me  you  will  be  able  to  lay  aside  your  lion's 
skin  and  your  old  man's  wisdom.  What  did  I  tell  you,  sir  ? 
Between  them  all  we  were  sure  to  be  saved.  And  believe  me 
now,  when  you  are  getting  on  in  the  world,  the  ties  of  love 
are  as  nothing  to  the  bonds  of  interest. 

LEANDER.  You  are  wrong.  For  without  the  love  of  Silvia 
I  should  never  have  been  saved. 


THE   BONDS  OF   INTEREST        ACT  m 

CRISPIN.  And  is  love  a  slight  interest?  I  have  always 
given  due  credit  to  the  ideal  and  I  count  upon  it  always. 
With  this  the  farce  ends. 

SILVIA.  [To  the  audience]  You  have  seen  in  it  how  these 
puppets  have  been  moved  by  plain  and  obvious  strings, 
like  men  and  women  in  the  farces  of  our  lives — strings  which 
were  their  interests,  their  passions,  and  all  the  illusions  and 
petty  miseries  of  their  state.  Some  are  pulled  by  the  feet 
to  lives  of  restless  and  weary  wandering;  some  by  the  hands, 
to  toil  with  pain,  to  struggle  with  bitterness,  to  strike  with 
cunning,  to  slay  with  violence  and  rage.  But  bito  the  hearts 
of  all  there  descends  sometimes  from  heaven  an  invisible 
thread,  as  if  it  were  woven  out  of  the  sunlight  and  the  moon- 
beams, the  invisible  thread  of  love,  which  makes  these  men 
and  women,  as  it  does  these  puppets  which  seem  like  men, 
almost  divine,  and  brings  to  our  foreheads  the  smile  and 
splendors  of  the  dawn,  lends  wings  to  our  drooping  spirits, 
and  whispers  to  us  still  that  this  farce  is  not  all  a  farce, 
that  there  is  something  noble,  something  divine  in  our  lives 
which  is  true  and  which  is  eternal,  and  which  shall  not  close 
when  the  farce  of  life  shall  close. 

Curtain 


THE    EVIL    DOERS    OF    GOOD 

COMEDY    IN    TWO    ACTS 

FIRST  PRESENTED  AT  THE  TEATRO  LARA,  MADRID,  ON  THE 
EVENING  OF  THE  FIRST  OF  DECEMBER,  1905 


CHARACTERS 

THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  CASA  MOLINA 

DONA  ESPERANZA 

ASSUMPTION 

TERESA 

NATIVITY 

LA  REPELONA 

A  MAID 

DON  HELIODORO 

JESUS 

MARTIN 

ENRIQUE 

THE  MARQUIS  OF  SANTO  TORIBIO 

DON  FRANCISQUITO 

CABRERA 

SERVANT 

The  action  passes  in  a  small  seaport  at  the  present  time 


THE    EVIL    DOERS    OF    GOOD 
THE    FIRST    ACT 

A  room  in  the  house  of  the  MARCHIONESS  OF  CASA  MOLINA. 
The  MARCHIONESS  and  DON  FRANCISQUITO  in  conversation. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Does  the  Marchioness  wish  anything 
else? 

MARCHIONESS.  Nothing,  Don  Francisquito;  only  do  be 
sure  to  have  the  accounts  ready  for  the  meeting  of  the 
Junta  this  afternoon.  Have  you  looked  over  the  meal 
tickets  which  have  been  turned  in?  Let  us  not  have  any 
more  trouble  such  as  we  had  last  month. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Everything  will  be  all  right,  Mar- 
chioness. Now  that  the  ladies  of  the  committee  have  de- 
cided— very  wisely — to  let  the  other  Zurita  give  out  the 
provisions,  it  will  not  happen  again. 

MARCHIONESS.  But  have  we  changed  shops?  I  always 
thought  Zurita's  was  the  best. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Yes,  Marchioness;  but  there  are  two 
Zuritas  in  the  grocery  business.  They  are  brothers.  One 
Zurita  is  good,  but  ours  is  the  bad  one. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  don't  understand. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  He  is  good  because  he  has  the  best 
things,  but  he  is  bad  because  he  is  a  godless  man,  without  a 
particle  of  conscience,  who  has  made  a  practice  of  cheating 
you  unmercifully,  without  stopping  to  think  that  what  you 
spend  really  belongs  to  the  poor. 

MARCHIONESS.  That  is  true.  However,  I  am  glad  of  the 
change. 

115 


116  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD         ACT  i 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Si,  seiiora.  The  other  Zurita,  who 
we  all  say  is  the  bad  one  because  he  does  not  keep  such  good 
things  in  his  shop) — in  fact  he  is  good.  He  is  a  saint  who 
would  not  demean  himself  by  making  money. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  see.  The  bad  one  has  the  good  shop, 
and  the  good  one  has  the  bad  one. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  He  has,  Marchioness. 

MARCHIONESS.  And  so  we  are  buying  from  him  now? 
It  all  seems  very  strange. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  The  ladies  so  decided  at  the  last 
meeting.  That  was  before  the  Marchioness  arrived.  How- 
ever, I  am  surprised  that  nobody  said  anything  to  the  Mar- 
chioness. 

MARCHIONESS.  Very  likely  they  did,  but  probably  I  was 
not  paying  attention.  This  confusion,  you  know,  of  two 
Zuritas,  the  good  one  who  is  bad,  and  the  bad  one  who  is 
the  good  one. . .  .  Really  it  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord,  I 
suppose.  There  is  no  reason  for  us  to  worry.  It  is  hard 
enough  to  do  good  anyway,  and  one  gets  very  little  thanks 
for  it. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  That  is  certainly  true,  senora.  There 
is  very  little  real  religion  nowadays — and  very  little  charity; 
very  little  honesty.  The  people  you  help  are  the  first  to 
say  things  about  you. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  do  you  expect?  We  do  good  to 
please  the  Lord;  it  is  utterly  useless  to  look  for  anything 
from  other  people.  The  only  result  is  ingratitude  or  some 
scandal.  However,  don't  forget  to  go  over  the  accounts. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Rely  upon  me,  Marchioness. 
He  goes  out.     ENRIQUE  enters. 

ENRIQUE.  Good    morning,   mamma.     [Kissing    her  hand. 

MARCHIONESS.  My  son ! 

ENRIQUE.  Did  you  sleep  well? 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  117 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  very.  How  are  you  this  morning? 
Did  you  have  any  headache  when  you  woke  up? 

ENRIQUE.  No,  mother. 

MARCHIONESS.  Did  you  remember  to  take  that  half-glass 
of  milk  and  the  two  biscuits  during  the  night? 

ENRIQUE.  No,  mother. 

MARCHIONESS.  Why  not  ? 

ENRIQUE.  I  didn't  wake  up  during  the  night. 

MARCHIONESS.  As  a  result,  you  see,  you  are  too  weak  to 
get  up  when  the  morning  comes.  I  shall  have  to  go  in  my- 
self and  wake  you  so  as  to  be  sure  that  you  take  proper 
nourishment. 

ENRIQUE.  Don't,  mamma. 

MARCHIONESS.  Why  not  ? 

ENRIQUE.  I  shan't  be  able  to  sleep  then.  I  had  much 
rather  sleep.  Are  my  cousins  up  yet? 

MARCHIONESS.  Not  yet.  They  are  very  tired  after  their 
journey.  It  is  a  long  trip  from  Paris;  they  did  not  even 
stop  off  at  Madrid. 

ENRIQUE.  Are  they  sleeping  in  the  same  room? 

MARCHIONESS.  Naturally,  when  they  have  just  been  mar- 
ried. What  a  question  to  ask ! 

ENRIQUE.  Why,  I  heard  my  cousin  say  last  night  that 
they  had  two  rooms  at  the  hotel  in  Paris. 

MARCHIONESS.  Did  she  say  that  ?  I  am  surprised.  How- 
ever, you  never  can  tell  what  people  will  do  when  they  are 
in  Paris. 

ENRIQUE.  She  said  that  they  were  taken  for  father  and 
daughter  everywhere,  except  in  one  place  where  they  were 
taken 

MARCHIONESS.  For  brother  and  sister  ? 

ENRIQUE.  No,  not  exactly — at  least  that  is  what  Teresa 
said. 


118  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

MARCHIONESS.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Your  cousin 
Teresa  is  rather  bizarre.  She  thinks  things  are  funny  which 
other  people  interpret  otherwise.  Anyhow,  there  isn't  so 
much  difference  in  their  ages.  She  isn't  so  young,  and  her 
husband  isn't  so  old. 

ENRIQUE.  My  new  cousin-in-law  is  horribly  ugly  though. 

MARCHIONESS.  There  seems  to  be  a  conspiracy  to  agree 
that  he  is  ugly.  He  doesn't  appear  so  ugly  to  me  for  a  man. 
You  must  remember  that  he  is  a  saint;  he  is  a  man  who  is 
absolutely  ideal,  and  there  are  not  many  of  them  nowadays. 
Teresita  can  never  thank  God  sufficiently  for  her  good  for- 
tune. She  was  utterly  without  prospects  after  the  collapse 
of  her  family 

ENRIQUE.  Don't  you  think  that  she  is  rather  good-looking  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  Too  good-looking,  I  think.  She  ought 
not  to  exaggerate  matters.  Her  style  of  dressing  is  entirely 
out  of  place.  You  cannot  dress  like  that  here  without  mak- 
ing yourself  conspicuous.  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  her. 

ENRIQUE.  Do  they  expect  to  stay  long? 

MARCHIONESS.  No,  only  while  they  are  remodelling  their 
house  at  Moraleda. 

ENRIQUE.  Oh !    Are  they  going  to  live  in  Moraleda  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  Certainly. 

ENRIQUE.  I  supposed  they  would  live  in  Madrid. 

MARCHIONESS.  How  absurd  !  Juanito  never  married  your 
cousin  to  live  in  Madrid.  To  maintain  any  sort  of  position 
in  Madrid  one  has  to  spend  money.  They  will  be  lead- 
ers in  Moraleda  so  long  as  your  cousin  behaves  herself. 
Teresita  never  did  have  much  sense,  any  more  than  your 
poor  Uncle  Ramon — I  trust  God  has  forgiven  him  by  this 
time — he  certainly  did  have  the  craziest  head,  which  proved 
the  destruction  of  his  family,  not  to  speak  of  the  mortifica- 
tion it  was  to  the  rest  of  us,  which  is  precisely  what  we 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  119 

suffer  now  on  account  of  your  Uncle  Heliodoro,  my  other 
dear  brother,  who  is  well  and  strong  yet,  I  thank  God  for 
that.  It  is  disagreeable  to  be  obliged  to  confess  it,  but  the 
men  in  our  family  never  did  amount  to  anything.  Indeed, 
I  live  in  dread.  . . . 

ENRIQUE.  Of  what?  Do  you  think  that  I  am  going  to 
throw  myself  away  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  You  ?  No,  my  angel !  You  are  a  good 
boy,  and  you  always  will  be  one — now  I  want  you  to  promise 
me.  Besides,  you  are  not  only  good  naturally,  but  you  have 
your  education  and  the  force  of  example.  They  work  won 
ders.  It  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  learn  what  the 
world  is  like  when  you  arrive  at  years  of  discretion.  Mean- 
while, we  can  continue  living  this  simple  life — which  is  noth- 
ing short  of  patriarchal — and  spend  eight  months  of  the  year 
at  Moraleda  and  the  other  four  here,  in  this  quiet  place, 
looking  out  to  sea — far  from  Madrid,  that  modern  Babylon. 
I  had  trouble  enough  bringing  you  up,  on  account  of  your 
being  so  delicate,  but,  thanks  to  this  regular  life,  your  health 
seems  at  last  to  be  pretty  well  assured.  We  shall  be  able  to 
attend  to  your  soul  presently,  which  is  more  important,  and 
can  be  lost  a  great  deal  more  easily.  But  I  think  I  hear  the 
bridal  couple.  .  .  .yes,  here  comes  Juanito. 

ENRIQUE.  I  was  waiting  to  say  good  morning. 
The  MARQUIS  OF  SANTO  TORIBIO  enters. 

MARQUIS.  Good  morning,  my  dear  aunt.  I  hope  you 
slept  well  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes.  And  you?  Could  you  sleep  at  all? 
You  were  not  used  to  the  bed. 

MARQUIS.  No,  no — not  at  all.  I  slept  like  a  log  all  night. 
I  am  worn  out  after  the  journey,  in  spite  of  the  sleeping-car. 
I  never  <;an  sleep  on  a  train.  Hello,  Enriquito!  Good 
morning. 


M 


120  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

ENRIQUE.  Good  morning,  cousin.     Where  is  Teresita? 

MARQUIS.  Oh,  finishing  her  hair.  She  will  be  with  us  in 
a  moment. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  would  you  like  for  breakfast? 

MARQUIS.  Anything  will  do.     Whatever  you  have. 

MARCHIONESS.  We  usually  .have  bizcochos  and  chocolate. 
If  you  prefer  something  else — 

MARQUIS.  No,  no;  by  all  means,  chocolate. 

MARCHIONESS.  Enrique,  ask  them  to  prepare  the  chocolate. 
ENRIQUE  goes  out. 

MARQUIS.  Enriquillo  is  a  nice  boy.  I  didn't  like  his  color 
when  we  arrived  last  night.  I  suppose  it  was  the  light. 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  him 
now.  Poor  boy ! 

MARQUIS.  Of  course  he  is  not  studying  anything  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  No;  it  is  absolutely  prohibited. 

MARQUIS.  Good !  Let  him  get  thoroughly  strong  first. 
He  is  young  yet. 

MARCHIONESS.  Nineteen.  How  time  does  fly!  I  wish 
his  father  could  see  him  now.  The  boy  was  the  apple  of  his 
eye.  An  only  son,  naturally 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  and  after  he  had  given  up  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing any.  By  the  way,  how  old  was  Manuel  when  Enriquito 
was  born  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  Fifty-two — somewhat  advanced. 

MARQUIS.  Fifty-two?    He  didn't  look  it. 

MARCHIONESS.  He  had  his  best  years  before  him,  but  life 
was  just  one  quarrel  and  disappointment  after  another.  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  my  brothers  worried  him  to  death;  he 
simply  could  not  stand  it.  They  were  always  involved  in 
some  lawsuit,  otherwise  it  was  an  out-and-out  scandal.  He 
had  to  work  day  and  night  to  keep  them  out  of  trouble — 


ACT!         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OP  GOOD  121 

of  course,  to  no  purpose.  By  dint  of  great  effort  he  pre- 
vented them  from  dragging  us  down;  he  saved  his  son  and 
me  from  disaster.  But  it  was  at  the  cost  of  his  health. 

MARQUIS.  That  reminds  me.  How  is  your  brother  Helio- 
doro?  As  festive  as  ever?  I  was  surprised  last  night  to 
find  him  here.  I  didn't  know  that  he  was  living  with  you. 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  from  time  to  time.  He  managed  to 
preserve  an  income  of  three  or  four  thousand  pesetas  from 
the  wreck  of  his  fortune,  which  he  spends  during  the  season 
in  Madrid.  Sometimes  it  takes  two  or  three  months;  some- 
times two  weeks  are  sufficient.  The  rest  of  the  year  he 
spends  with  us.  I  make  him  a  modest  allowance. 

MARQUIS.  Do  you  have  much  trouble  with  him? 

MARCHIONESS.  No,  as  long  as  he  has  no  money  he  is  very 
repressed.  He  confines  himself  to  preaching  his  ideas — I 
am  glad  to  say  not  before  Enrique.  It  is  prohibited,  and  he 
knows  better  than  to  transgress.  We  have  agreed  as  to 
that — otherwise  I  should  not  tolerate  him  in  the  house. 
His  doctrines  are  demoralizing.  They  are  perfectly  awful ! 

MARQUIS.  Whatever  he  has  no  facilities  for  translating 
into  acts. 

MARCHIONESS.  They  are  downright  heretical. 

MARQUIS.  How  is  he  now  about  drink?  Satisfied  with 
talk? 

MARCHIONESS.  I  wish  I  could  say  so.  At  times,  to  be 
frank — well,  we  keep  him  off  the  streets.  Things  happen 
more  in  retirement.  Fortunately,  everybody  understands, 
so  they  see  that  he  gets  home  without  attracting  attention. 
He  remains  in  bed  then  for  two  or  three  days,  Enrique 
worries  because  he  suffers  from  such  tremendous  headaches, 
and  so  we  go  on  bearing  this  terrible  cross.  But  tell  me — 
how  are  you?  Are  you  happy  now  that  you  are  married? 
I  certainly  hope  for  the  best. 


122          THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

MARQUIS.  Yes,  very  happy.  Teresa  is  charming;  she  has 
an  even,  cheerful  disposition. 

MARCHIONESS.  Undoubtedly;  although  you  must  make 
some  allowance  for  her  youth.  After  she  has  lived  awhile 
with  you,  she  will  settle  down  to  a  sober  routine.  You  will 
be  happy.  I  am  sure  that  she  is  the  woman  you  have  been 
looking  for  to  run  the  house  and  be  a  second  mother  to  your 
children.  How  sad  that  the  poor  dears  lost  their  own  mother 
so  young !  If  they  had  all  been  boys  it  would  not  have  mat- 
tered, but  you  cannot  bring  up  girls  without  a  woman  in 
the  house.  Teresita  is  very  affectionate.  Of  course  you 
have  discovered  that.  And  she  is  fond  of  children.  She 
will  love  them  just  as  much  as  her  own. 

MARQUIS.  I  am  sure;  although  I  think  for  the  present  it 
will  be  just  as  well  for  them  to  remain  at  school.  From  what 
they  write  they  seem  to  be  satisfied.  They  like  school. 
You  know  how  children  are — or  rather  you  know  what  no- 
tions people  will  put  into  their  heads,  things  they  would 
never  have  thought  of  themselves.  They  don't  seem  to  like 
the  idea  of  my  marriage,  the  girls  especially.  I  wish  you 
could  have  seen  their  letter.  I  was  amused,  to  tell  the  truth; 
but  I  was  angry. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  see  the  hand  of  your  sister  Rosalia.  She 
never  could  reconcile  herself  to  the  idea  of  your  marrying 
again. 

MARQUIS.  Imagine  my  position  ! 

MARCHIONESS.  But  whose  fault  was  it?  If  it  had  been 
possible  to  get  along  with  her,  there  wasn't  any  one  you 
would  rather  have  had  in  the  house. 

MARQUIS.  It  was  simply  out  of  the  question.  Neither  I 
nor  the  children  nor  the  servants  could  abide  her.  You 
know  what  she  is. 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  and  I  predicted  what  was  going  to 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  123 

happen  the  last  time  that  we  freed  our  minds.  She  will  die 
alone  in  a  corner  some  day,  with  a  couple  of  cats  and  an 
old  parrot. 

ENRIQUE  enters,  with  one  hand  tied  in  a  handkerchief. 

ENRIQUE.  I  told  them  to  bring  the  chocolate. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  have  you  done  to  your  hand? 

ENRIQUE.  Nothing;  just  a  little  burn. 

MARCHIONESS.  A  burn?  How  did  that  happen?  Were 
you  in  the  kitchen? 

ENRIQUE.  No;  it  was  Teresa's  alcohol  stove.  She  called 
me  in  as  I  was  passing  her  room.  She  was  curling  her  hair, 
and  we  upset  the  stove. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  wish  you  would  be  more  careful.  Why 
will  you  be  so  rough  ?  You  are  just  like  two  children.  Ask 
the  servants  to  scrape  a  potato  and  bandage  it  at  once. 

ENRIQUE.  Oh  !     It  is  not  worth  the  trouble. 

MARQUIS.  What  time  does  the  mail  get  in? 

MARCHIONESS.  At  noon,  usually. 

MARQUIS.  Do  you  take  any  papers  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  Our  Moraleda  paper;  we  have  none  from 
Madrid.  If  there  is  any  news  we  hear  it  later  from  Don 
Francisquito.  A  newspaper  is  not  a  thing  one  leaves  lying 
about  the  house.  Don  Francisquito  will  send  out  and  get 
one  for  you.  Only  remember;  it  is  not  for  everybody.  , 

MARQUIS.  No,  I  am  not  much  of  a  newspaper  reader  my- 
self.    I  run  over  the  head-lines;  that  is  all. 
TERESA  enters. 

TERESA.  Good  morning,  aunt.  Aren't  you  going  to  kiss 
me? 

MARCHIONESS.  Great  heavens ! 

TERESA.  What  is  the  matter? 

MARCHIONESS.  Nothing.     I  will  see  you  later. 

TERESA.  What  is  it  ?    No,  tell  me  now, 


124  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

MARCHIONESS.  Not  before  Enrique. 

TERESA.  I  was  startled  myself  at  first. .  .  . 

MARCHIONESS.  [Under  her  breath]  That  deshabille,  my 
dear.  It  is  entirely  too  low. 

TERESA.  Oh  !  Is  that  all  ?  I  didn't  think  there  was  any 
harm;  I  am  so  thin 

MARCHIONESS.  Be  careful  what  you  say.  I  can  tell  that 
matinee  is  from  Paris. 

TERESA.  Yes,  it  comes  from  a  chain  of  shops  which  be- 
longs to  a  religious  order — so  I  am  told. 

MARCHIONESS.  Teresita !  You  are  married  now.  Such 
things  are  not  appropriate  to  a  woman  in  your  condition. 
Think  how  it  looks. 

TERESA.  I  am  afraid  you  expect  too  much.  There  is  so 
much  more  to  marriage  than  just  a  question  of  clothes.  I 
know  I  have  always  been  a  child.  Now  that  I  am  grown  up 
I  still  feel  that  I  am  a  child;  I  always  shall.  It  is  awfully 
hard  to  remember  to  be  dignified,  and  not  run  and  skip  rope 
or  play  dolls,  or  dance  around  in  a  ring  and  sing  with  the 
children.  I  shan't  be  able  to  believe  when  I  get  back  to 
Moraleda  and  find  four  children  waiting  for  me  in  the  house, 
that  I  am  their  mother — that  they  are  really  my  children. 
It  seems  to  me  that  they  will  be  more  like  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, whom  I  am  to  take  care  of  and  teach  how  to  play.  We 
are  going  to  have  such  nice  times  together.  I  love  them 
already,  and  I  know  they  will  all  love  me.  I  am  sure  of  it, 
although  I  have  never  seen  them,  because  we  are  all  children, 
and  then  they  haven't  any  mother.  And  I  know  what  that 
means.  * 

MARQUIS.  Oh !  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  had  decided  that  it 
was  best  not  to  bring  them  to  Moraleda  for  the  present. 

TERESA.  Why  not  ? 

MARQUIS.  They  will  be  better  off  at  school;    they  write 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  125 

they  are  contented.  It  will  do  them  good.  Anyhow,  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  tied  down  so  soon.  You  will  never  have 
any  time  to  enjoy  yourself  if  you  begin  by  taking  up  the 
cares  of  housekeeping  and  the  responsibilities  of  a  family. 

TERESA.  I  am  sorry  that  you  feel  that  way  about  me.  I 
suppose  it  is  my  fault.  Naturally  you  have  no  confidence 
in  my  judgment  when  I  tell  you  I  am  a  child.  I  know  my 
aunt  feels  the  same.  She  thinks  I  have  no  self-control.  She 
has  always  been  convinced  of  it. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  cannot  imagine  what  makes  you  say 
that.  If  I  had  had  any  such  idea,  you  may  be  sure  I  should 
never  have  consented  to  your  marriage,  considering  what 
marriage  implies. 

TERESA.  You  may  think  so,  but  I  knew  better.  Juan, 
you  are  not  going  to  have  another  mother  for  your  children 
— you  will  only  have  one  more  child,  one  burden  more.  I 
want  you  to  teach  me,  for  I  am  dreadfully  ignorant,  although 
when  I  lost  my  mother  I  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  stepmother 
who  was  very  severe,  and  knew  how  to  bring  up  bad  children. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  stepmother? 

TERESA.  Yes.     Poverty. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  can't  see  that  you  have  any  right  to 
complain.  How  long  did  your  poverty  last?  As  soon  as 
you  had  nothing  at  home  everything  was  provided  at  our 
house.  Haven't  we  done  everything  that  we  could  to  make 
you  happy?  Aren't  you  happy  now? 

TERESA.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  selfish  enough.  If  I 
am  to  be  happy,  I  want  to  feel  that  everybody  about  me  is 
happy.  I  was  not  the  only  one  at  home;  the  others  were  not 
as  fortunate  as  I.  And  I  am  not  the  only  one  now.  I  want 
to  feel  that  everybody  is  happy,  don't  you  see?  Every- 
body! I  knew  that  something  was  the  matter  when  you 
said  a  moment  ago  that  the  children  were  not  coming  to  live 


126  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

with  us,  otherwise  you  would  not  have  changed  your  mind. 
Somebody  has  told  you  something.  Or  is  it  something  that 
you  have  noticed  yourself  ?  I  want  you  to  be  frank  with  me 
and  always  tell  me  what  you  feel.  I  like  to  see  in  people's 
faces  that  they  trust  me.  I  want  to  know  what  is  in  their 
hearts.  I  can't  bear  frowns  and  scowls  and  sour  looks. 
They  frighten  me;  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Am  I  too  cheer- 
ful? You  will  soon  see  how  serious  I  can  be,  only  I  don't 
want  you  to  look  so  worried  about  it.  If  I  am  ever  to  be 
cheerful,  then  I  shall  have  to  keep  it  to  myself. 

ENRIQUE.  Don't,  mother !     Don't  be  so  hard  on  Teresita. 

MARCHIONESS.  Hard  on  her  ?  I  should  think  not !  What 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Who  ever  saw  such  a  boy !  He  is 
crying.  I  never»heard  of  anyone  being  so  sensitive.  What 
are  you  crying  for? 

MARQUIS.  A  grown  man  ?     Over  nothing  ! 

MARCHIONESS.  His  heart  is  tender. 

TERESA.  Poor  Enrique !  You  are  too  sensitive  to  be 
happy  in  this  world. 

A  SERVANT  enters. 

SERVANT.  The  Marquis  and  Marchioness  may  take  choco- 
late. 

MARCHIONESS.  Do  you  prefer  it  here  with  us  ? 

MARQUIS.  No,  we  will  go  into  the  dining-room. 

TERESA.  I  don't  care  for  any;  we  are  later  than  usual  this 
morning.  If  I  take  anything  I  shall  have  no  appetite  for 
luncheon. 

MARQUIS.  Just  as  you  say.  I  am  exhausted  myself.  I 
must  eat. 

MARCHIONESS.  Perhaps  you  can  help  your  cousin,  En- 
rique. 

MARQUIS.  Good !  And  when  I  am  done  you  can  take  me 
out  to  telegraph. 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  127 

ENRIQUE.  That  will  be  nice. 

MARQUIS.  Good-by,  aunt. 

MARCHIONESS.  Good-by. 

The  MARQUIS  and  ENRIQUE  go  out. 

TERESA.  Enrique  is  such  a  nice  boy ! 

MARCHIONESS.  Poor  angel ! 

TERESA.  It  is  too  bad  that  he  is  so  sensitive.  I  hate  to 
think  what  would  happen  to  him  if  he  should  ever  have  to 
shift  for  himself.  You  were  not  young  when  he  was  born, 
and  he  has  no  father.  Suppose  he  should  be  thrown  upon 
the  world  and  you  were  not  here — he  is  only  a  child.  You 
don't  know  what  it  means  to  be  deprived  of  the  love  and 
protection  of  your  parents,  and  find  yourself  suddenly  face 
to  face  with  the  indifference  of  strangers.  I  don't  want  you 
to  say  now  that  I  am  not  serious. 

MARCHIONESS.  A  little  too  serious.  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  detect  a  note  of  complaint.  When  you  lost  your  parents 
you  were  not  thrown  upon  the  world  and  left  to  shift  for 
yourself,  amid  the  indifference  of  strangers. 

TERESA.  You  are  right  and  you  must  forgive  me.  You 
have  been  very  kind.  I  owe  you  everything.  . 

MARCHIONESS.  It  is  too  much  to  expect,  my  dear,  that  all 
our  desires  should  be  gratified  in  this  life.  I  know  as  well  as 
you  do  what  dreaming  and  visions  mean  to  the  young;  I 
know  what  a  girl  imagines  love  to  be  like  when  she  is  twenty. 
But  then  I  know  that  this  marriage  was  the  best  possible 
guarantee  of  the  future  to  a  girl  in  your  position.  I  have 
lived  longer  than  you.  Call  it  a  marriage  of  convenience  if 
you  like — entirely  too  convenient  for  the  taste  of  the  young; 
but  some  day  you  will  realize  that  it  was  your  only  surety 
against  the  risks  to  which  you  were  exposed.  Virtue  is 
always  at  a  disadvantage  when  it  is  combined  with  poverty 
and  good  looks. 


128  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD         ACT  r 

TERESA.  I  realise  that,  and  I  did  from  the  beginning;    I 
never   complained.     I   was   more   anxious    to   make   others 
happy  than  to  be  happy  myself. 
DON  HELIODOHO  enters. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Hello !  You  here,  niece  ?  My  little 
niece ! 

TERESA.  Good  morning,  uncle.  How  is  it  that  you  are 
out  so  early? 

DON  HELIODORO.  This  is  the  bathing  season.  Water  is 
my  element.  I  had  a  fine  bath.  Nothing  else  is  so  good  for 
my  headaches. 

TERESA.  Do  you  still  have  those  headaches? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Worse  and  worse.  Sometimes  I  am  in 
bed  for  two  or  three  days  together.  I  was  recovering  from 
one  last  night  when  you  came. 

MARCHIONESS.  Fortunately,  it  was  not  a  bad  one. 

DON  HELIODORO.  No  I  slept  it  off.  You  must  forgive 
me  if  I  hardly  noticed  you.  You  know  how  I  am.  I  wish 
you  would  explain  to  your  husband 

TERESA.  It  is  not  necessary  to  explain. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Well,  how  did  you  get  along  on  your 
honeymoon  ?  How  was  that  wedding  trip  ?  Did  you  en- 
joy yourself  in  Paris?  But  you  had  been  there  before. 

TERESA.  Yes,  when  I  was  a  child. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  remember — you  went  with  your  father. 
Poor  Ramon !  How  he  did  enjoy  Paris !  There  is  nothing 
like  it.  Everybody  ought  to  make  three  visits  to  Paris: 
first  before  he  is  married,  next  just  after  he  has  been  mar- 
ried, and  then  again  when  he  is  a  widower.  I  have  tried  all 
three,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  when  I  enjoyed  myself 
most. 

MARCHIONESS.  It  would?  When  you  were  under  least 
sense  of  restraint. 


ACT  i         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  129 

DON  HELIODORO.  That  was  when  I  was  married.  When 
I  was  single  and  when  I  was  a  widower  it  was  just  one  em- 
barrassment after  another. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  may  suppress  the  details  of  your  ad- 
ventures. We  can  imagine  what  they  were. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Do  you  expect  to  be  with  us  long? 

TERESA.  I  can't  say.  We  are  remodelling  the  house  at 
Moraleda. 

DON  HELIODORO.  You  will  find  it  tiresome;  this  is  a  dull 
spot. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  call  it  dull.  The 
quiet  is  its  principal  attraction.  Thank  God,  we  are  free 
from  summer  visitors ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  thank  God !  You  could  never  get 
here  without  his  special  interposition.  I  never  saw  such  a 
wretched  road.  What  diligences,  what  service !  Then, 
when  you  get  here,  how  pleasant  they  do  make  it !  If  there 
is  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  in  your  appearance,  the  chil- 
dren run  shouting  after  you  down  the  street;  the  grown 
people  stare  as  if  you  were  some  strange  species  of  vermin. 
Everybody  who  is  anybody  rolls  himself  up  in  a  ball  like 
a  hedgehog,  so  as  to  prevent  contamination  by  strangers. 
Then  there  is  so  much  to  do  here.  No,  no  theatre;  of  course 
.not !  If  a  company  of  strolling*  players  dares  to  lift  its  head, 
the  priests  preach  against  it  from  the  pulpits,  Dona  Espe- 
ranza  takes  up  the  crusade  in  her  tertulia,  and  the  first  thing 
you  know  the  plays  all  turn  out  to  be  sinful,  the  leading  lady 
isn't  married  to  the  man  you  thought  was  her  husband,  the 
soubrette's  skirts  are  too  short — and  God  help  the  poor 
actors !  We  had  music  for  a  while  on  Sundays  in  the  glorieta, 
but  never  again  !  The  boys  held  the  girls  too  close  when  they 
danced.  So  now  the  girls  have  a  club  of  their  own  under 
the  supervision  of  the  ladies,  and  the  men  have  another 


130          THE  EVIL  POERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

.which  has  been  organized  by  the  gentlemen.  They  have  a 
chorus  and  sing;  it  seems  to  be  moral  and  uplifting.  The 
only  cafe  closes  at  eleven.  There  is  nowhere  to  go  except 
our  house — how  exciting !  And  on  Saturdays  you  can  look 
in  on  Dona  Esperanza.  I  cah1  her  the  She-Bishop;  she  has 
an  eye  out  for  everything.  She  criticises,  she  lays  down  the 
law,  she  can  tell  you  the  proper  cut  for  your  bathing  suit, 
and  when  you  ought  to  take  a  bath — yes,  and  when  it  is 
time  for  you  to  go  to  bed,  and  with  whom. 

MARCHIONESS.  Heliodoro !  Don't  you  begin  romancing. 
That  will  do. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  say  with  whom  because  she  makes  all 
the  matches.  She  fixes  it  up  for  the  rich  and  the  poor.  You 
have  had  the  experience;  your  aunt's  one  idea  is  to  imitate 
her.  You  were  auctioned  off  on  that  plan. 

MARCHIONESS.  Heliodoro,  Heliodoro,  I  fear  you  are  not 
over  that  headache.  I  shah1  have  to  retire  with  Teresita  if 
you  continue  like  this. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Poor  Teresita !  Wait  and  see.  How 
shall  I  put  it  ?  Ah  !  You  know  Moraleda  ?  Well,  .this  is 
the  same,  only  more  restricted  and  confined;  there  is  a 
tighter  blockade.  They  have  got  us  and  we  suffocate.  You 
will  see,  you  will  see. 

MARCHIONESS.  Hush !  0bn't  pay  any  attention  to  him. 
Nobody  minds  what  he  says. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO  enters. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  is  it,  Don  Francisquito  ? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Dona  Esperanza  and  Dona  Assump- 
tion are  waiting  down-stairs.  They  have  come  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  Marchioness's  niece,  the  Marchioness  of  Santo 
Toribio. 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  by  all  means.     Ask  them  up. 
DON  FRANCISQUITO  retires. 


ACT  i         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  131 

DON  HELIODORO.  They  are  here. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  don't  wish  to  criticise,  Teresita,  but  I 
think  I  would  change  that  matinSe. 

TERESA.  It  won't  take  a  minute;  it  will  be  no  trouble  at 
all.  Wait  until  you  see  my  new  dress. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Better  wear  gloves  and  put  a  brake  on 
your  conversation.  We  don't  want  to  shock  them. 

MARCHIONESS.  Frankly,  Heliodoro,  this  is  worse  than  an 
out-and-out  headache.  A  few  symptoms  and  you  are  im- 
possible. 

TERESA.  I  must  hurry  and  dress.  [Goes  out. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  talk  like  this 
before  Teresita.  It  is  lucky  her  husband  didn't  heaf  you. 

DON  HELIODORO.  He  will  later. 

MARCHIONESS.  Remember,  Heliodoro ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  That's  right.  Remind  me  that  I  am 
living  on  charity. 

MARCHIONESS.  Who  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing?  All 
I  ask  is  to  have  you  respect  me  and  my  house — yes,  and 
yourself;  and  I  should  be  satisfied. 

DON  HELIODORO.  How  about  my  convictions?  My  prin- 
ciples, my  ideas  ?  Aren't  they  to  be  considered  ?  You  don't 
suppose  that  I  am  going  to  sacrifice  my  ideas  for  a  crust  of 
bread  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  There  is  something  the  matter  with  you 
to-day.  What  are  you  sitting  down  for?  The  ladies  are 
not  calling  on  you.  However,  as  long  as  you  behave  your= 
self— 

DON  HELIODORO.  The  probabilities  are  against  it.  I  love 
to  annoy  the  ladies;  it  is  the  only  liberty  they  allow  me.  I 
am  afraid  I  am  going  to  say  something  awful. 

MARCHIONESS.  Mercy  on  us  ! 


132  THE   EVIL  DOERS   OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

DON  HELIODORO.  After  the  explosion,  eh?  Well,  God 
have  mercy  on  you,  even  as  I  have  mercy. 

[He  sings  the  "Marseillaise." 

"Allons,  enfants  de  la  patrie  !" 

I  must  work  up  a  proper  frame  of  mind. 

MARCHIONESS.  In  any  event,  they  know  you  are  not  re- 
sponsible. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [Singing] 

"Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive !" 

DONA  ESPERANZA  and  DONA  ASSUMPTION  enter. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Here  we  are,  Marchioness. 

ASSUMPTION.  Marchioness ! 

MARCHIONESS.  Esperanza  and  Assumption !  My  dear 
friends ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  How  do  you  do.  ladies? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Ah !  Don  Heliodoro !  We  are  glad 
to  see  you  at  last.  An  unexpected  pleasure. 

ASSUMPTION.  Indeed  it  is !     You  are  rarely  visible. 

DON  HELIODORO.  It  happens  that  way.  I  make  it  a  rule 
never  to  go  out  upon  Saturdays. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  do?  • 

DON  HELIODORO.     Is  that  the  evening  of  your  tertulia? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  So  it  is !  [Aside  to  ASSUMPTION]  He  is 
trying  to  insult  us. 

ASSUMPTION.  [Idem]  Drunk  as  usual !  He  stops  at  noth- 
ing. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [Sings] 

"Centre  nous  de  la  tyrannic !" 

MARCHIONESS.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  what  he  does.  I 
think  sometimes  that  his  head  is  affected;  we  notice  it  in  the 
family.  He  has  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 


ACT  i         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  133 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Not  to  speak  of  headaches.  So  Tere- 
sita  and  her  husband  arrived  last  night  ?  I  am  delighted 
to  hear  that  they  are  getting  along  so  nicely,  although  I 
expected  it.  Santo  Toribio  is  a  man  without  spot — a  per- 
fect gentleman,  a  true  Christian.  I  wish  all  men  were  like 
him.  Teresita  is  indeed  fortunate. 

ASSUMPTION.  Is  there  any  news? 

MARCHIONESS.  News? 

ASSUMPTION.  Why 

MARCHIONESS.  Oh! — No,  not  as  yet.  However,  she  will 
be  out  in  a  minute  to  speak  for  herself.  She  stayed  in  bed 
very  late.  The  journey  was  tiresome. 

ASSUMPTION.  No  wonder. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Don't  disturb  them  on  our  account. 

MARCHIONESS.  Not  at  all.     It  will  be  a  pleasure 

ASSUMPTION.  The  pleasure  will  be  ours. 

MARCHIONESS.  She  is  very  fond  of  you  both.  Whenever 
she  writes  she  always  sends  you  her  love. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  hope  you  sent  her  ours  while  you 
were  about  it. 

MARCHIONESS.  And  she  asked  me  to  thank  you. 

ASSUMPTION.  We  appreciate  it.  She  always  knew  what 
we  thought  of  her. 

MARCHIONESS.  She  reciprocates  it  fully. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [As  if  to  himself]  She  is  entirely  yours, 
yours;  she  considers  it  a  great  honor — 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Is  he  talking  to  himself? 

MARCHIONESS.  Did  you  say  anything? 

DON  HELIODORO.  No,  I  was  merely  running  over  a  few 
polite  phrases.  A  coincidence;  association  of  ideas — 
"Allow  me!"  "No,  no!  allow  me;  I  beg  your  pardon" — 
I  had  an  elegant  bringing  up. 


134  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

MARCHIONESS.  Are  you  surprised  that  I  am  worried  about 
him? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  have  our  sympathy,  Marchioness. 
How  often  I  say  to  my  sister:  "I  am  so  sorry  for  the  poor 
Marchioness ! " 

ASSUMPTION.  Somehow  or  other  we  always  seem  to  be 
saying:  " Poor  Marchioness  !" 

MARCHIONESS.  I  knew  that  you  were  friends  of  mine. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  knew  how  we  loved  you. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  have  time  for  nothing  else. 

ASSUMPTION.  And  we  know  that  you  love  us. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  often  say  to  my  poor  boy:  "How  I  do 
love  Esperanza  and  Assumption!"  Enrique  loves  you  too. 

DON  HELIODORO.  And  so  do  I;  I  love  you. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  We  have  not  the  same  confidence  in 
your  love,  Don  Heliodoro — if  I  make  myself  clear. 

DON  HELJODORO.  I  cannot  imagine  why.  It  is  the  pure 
article. 

ASSUMPTION.  To  be  viewed  with  suspicion.  Your  corner 
in  the  club  enjoys  a  deserved  reputation.  All  the  mots  and 
the  scandal  originate  there. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  believe  myself  that  he  was  at  the 
bottom  of  that  story  about  poor  Maria  de  la  O.  I  suppose 
you  knew  all  about  it,  Marchioness  ?  I  was  shocked.  How- 
ever, I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  I  am  the  last  person  in 
the  world  to  think  evil. 

DON  HELIODORO.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  you  have  a  good 
excuse  for  investigating  the  details. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  There  has  recently  been  an  extraordi- 
nary amount  of  gossip  in  this  town.  Nobody  ever  used  to 
speak  ill  of  anybody. 

ASSUMPTION.  I  blame  it  all  on  the  club.     The  men  who 


ACT  i         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  135 

are  good  for  nothing  congregate  there;  they  have  nothing 
else  to  do. 

DON  HELIODORO.  We  are  thinking  of  organizing  a  chorus. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  understood  that  you  were  devoting 
your  attention  to  our  chorus,  and  doing  everything  you  could 
to  bring  it  into  contempt.  The  other  night,  during  the  con- 
cert in  the  plaza,  you  stood  on  the  balcony  at  the  club  and 
howled  like  a  cat.  A  witty  idea ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  No,  you  do  me  injustice.  It  was  a  real 
cat — Michito,  the  club  cat;  he  was  spending  the  evening  on 
the  terrace.  He  has  fallen  in  love,  poor  chap  !  All  I  did  was 
to  meow  two  or  three  times  to  encourage  him.  I  was  his 
Zapaquilda. 

"The  chaste  Zapaquilda, 
With  love  the  cat  filled  her" 

ASSUMPTION.  You  hardly  expect  us  to  believe  that  canard 
about  the  cat.  What  is  your  objection  to  our  chorus? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  How  does  it  interfere  with  you? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  As  long  as  it 
doesn't  sing,  not  at  all. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Isn't  it  a  great  deal  better  for  the 
working  man  to  pass  his  leisure  in  song  than  in  taverns  and 
revolutionary  clubs,  dissipating  his  time  reading  and  hear- 
ing talk  that  is  seditious? 

ASSUMPTION.  Take  the  two  kinds  of  men;  put  them  side 
by  side.  What  a  contrast!  How  orderly,  how  respectful 
some  are !  Their  every  desire  seems  to  have  been  gratified. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  are  others  who  do  nothing  but 
complain,  roister  about,  and  shout  at  the  top  of  their  lungs. 
They  even  strike. 

DON  HELIODORO.  No  doubt  they  do.    The  other  fellows 


136  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

have  everything  they  want,  and  you  take  good  care  to  see 
that  they  get  nothing. 

MARCHIONESS.  There  must  be  some  distinction. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Now  you  have  it — some  distinction. 
You  are  not  handing  out  alms  and  charity  for  nothing.  All 
you  ask  is  a  profession  of  faith,  an  oath  of  absolute  allegiance, 
social,  religious,  political,  sentimental — yes,  even  sentimental. 
You  are  shocked  when  you  find  some  one  who  is  not  willing 
to  sell  his  soul,  his  most  cherished  beliefs,  for  whatever  you 
are  ready  to  offer,  and  there  are  fewer  poor  men  who  will  do 
it,  let  me  tell  you,  than  gentlemen  among  the  upper  classes. 
You  think  that  you  are  encouraging  virtue  when  what  you 
are  really  doing  is  fostering  hypocrisy.  You  are  not  educat- 
ing the  masses — you  are  holding  a  ruler  in  one  hand  and  a 
piece  of  candy  in  the  other.  Moliere's  Don  Juan  Tenorio  is 
a  revolting  spectacle  when  he  bribes  a  beggar  to  blaspheme, 
but  morally  it  is  no  worse  than  if  he  had  debauched  him 
for  a  benediction.  Giving  with  one  hand  and  taking  back 
with  the  other  never  appealed  to  me.  Good  isn't  a  seed 
which  you  sow  with  one  eye  on  the  harvest.  You  scatter 
the  seed.  Some  falls  on  fertile  ground;  very  well.  Some 
the  wind  carries  away,  but  you  lose  nothing.  The  joy  of 
doing  good  is  in  sowing  the  seed,  not  in  what  you  think  you 
are  going  to  get  out  of  it. 

DOXA  ESPERANZA.  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  we  are 
improving  the  condition  of  the  poor  out  of  selfishness  ?  It  is 
a  great  deal  easier,  no  doubt,  to  scatter  your  seed  broadcast 
than  it  is  first  to  prepare  the  ground  carefully,  and  then 
cultivate  it. 

MARCHIONESS.  Pay  no  attention  to  what  my  brother  says. 
God  made  him,  and  he  is  responsible. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  We  are  acquainted  with  your  brother's 
peculiar  propensities  for  doing  good. 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  137 

ASSUMPTION.  That  wretched  drunkard,  Cabrera,  who  is  a 
disgrace  to  the  village,  and  La  Repelona,  the  miserable  female 
who  lives  with  him,  are  cases  in  point.  He  encourages  them 
and  leads  them  on  to  make  exhibitions  of  themselves.  They 
drink  until  they  can  no  longer  stand  up. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  And  because  we  do  not  ke  Hit  and  de- 
cline to  assist  them  while  they  are  in  such  a  condition,  they 
insult  us  to  our  faces.  That  is  all  your  brand  of  charity 
amounts  to. 

MARCHIONESS.  It  would  be  a  pretty  state  of  affairs  if  he  _ 
were  intrusted  with  the  morals  of  the  community. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  in  your  eyes  I  am  a  sort  of  Beast 
of  the  Apocalypse,  brought  up  to  date.  Well,  let  us  divide 
the  Kingdoms  of  this  World,  or  rather  of  this  village.  You 
take  your  friends,  while  I — I  will  take  myself;  because  I 
have  no  friends  I  can  call  mine.  My  friends  are  their  own 
masters.  They  think  what  they  like,  they  say  what  they 
like,  and  they  do  what  they  like. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  They  drink  what  they  like. 

DON  HELIODORO.  They  do,  si,  senora.  They  are  very  par- 
ticular about  that.  I  do  not  ask  them  even  to  subscribe 
to  my  respectability.  Liberty  is  my  motto — Liberty ! 

"LibertS,  libertt  chSriel" 

TERESA  enters. 

TERESA.  Dona  Esperanza  and  Assumption! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Teresita,  my  child  ! 

ASSUMPTION.  My  dear  Teresita  ! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  have  no  idea  how  delighted  we 
were  to  hear  from  your  aunt  of  your  marriage  to  Santo 
Toribio.  We  have  known  him  ever  since  we  were  girls. 
You  must  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.  How  often 
I  have  said  to  my  sister:  If  I  had  had  a  daughter  he  is  the 


138  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

very  husband  I  should  have  prayed  for !  No  doubt  you 
realize  by  this  time  that  poverty  was  only  a  passing  trial, 
since  it  was  borne  with  resignation.  In  this  life  we  some- 
times anticipate  our  reward. 

TERESA.  Thanks  to  my  aunt  and  to  you. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  are  looking  extremely  well. 

ASSUMPTION.  Divinely !     You  seem  like  another  person. 

TERESA.  Thank  you  so  much. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [Aside  to  TERESA]  Yes,  thank  her.  If 
you  are  divine  now  and  like  another  person,  imagine  what 
you  must  have  looked  like  before. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  But  where  is  your  husband  ?  We  wish 
to  congratulate  him. 

TERESA.  He  will  be  here  presently.  He  hurried  out  to 
telegraph,  and  on  the  way  he  was  to  stop  at  mass. 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  Enriquito  is  with  him. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Do  you  expect  to  live  at  Moraleda? 

TERESA.  Yes,  at  Moraleda. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  A  wise  choice.  You  will  find  all  the 
conveniences.  Your  husband's  house  is  magnificent,  and 
the  country  place  simply  regal.  It  is  not  far  away.  Of 
course  everything  is  rather  out  of  repair.  When  the  Marquis 
lost  his  first  wife,  he  took  no  interest  in  such  matters;  but 
now  he  will  have  you  as  an  incentive. 
DON  FRANCISQUITO  enters. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  If  you  will  permit  me,  ladies .... 

MARCHIONESS.  What  is  it,  Don  Francisquito  ? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Nativity  and  Martin  are  waiting 
down-stairs.  They  say  they  are  expected  by  the  Sefiora 
Marchioness. 

MARCHIONESS.  Oh,  yes  !  I  am  to  hand  them  their  papers. 
Ask  them  to  come  up — to  come  up  immediately.  And  tell 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  139 

them  that  Dona  Esperanza  and  Dona  Assumption  are  with 
me. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  They  know  already,  Seftora  Mar- 
chioness. 

MARCHIONESS.  It  seems  they  are  really  going  to  be  married 
at  last. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  What  we  have  done  will  be  appreciated. 
We  have  made  no  mistake.  They  are  both  faithful  and 
industrious,  and  now  that  conditions  are  favorable,  every- 
thing will  be  easy  if  they  attend  strictly  to  business. 

TERESA.  Are  you  marrying  somebody? 

MARCHIONESS.  Yes,  two  unfortunates  from  the  village — 
orphans  who  have  been  in  our  charge;  although  the  girl  is 
not  really  from  this  place.  Her  story  sounds  more  like  a 
novel. 

TERESA.  Is  that  so?     Do  tell  me  about  it. 

MARCHIONESS.  Here  they  are.     We  shall  have  to  wait. 
NATIVITY  and  MARTIN  enter. 

MARCHIONESS.  Come  in,  come  right  in.  There  is  nobody 
here  but  the  family.  My  niece,  the  Marchioness  of  Santo 
Toribio. .  .  . 

NATIVITY.  Senorita  Teresa  ?  She  was  in  the  village  a  long 
while  ago;  she  was  a  little  girl  then.  She  came  one  day  with 
the  Marchioness  and  another  lady  to  visit  the  asylum. 

TERESA.  Yes,  my  mother. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  certainly  have  a  good  memory.  You 
were  only  a  mite  at  the  time. 

NATIVITY.  I  remember  it  perfectly. 

TERESA.  I  remember  now.  Of  course— and  they  told  me 
your  story.  I  was  tremendously  affected  by  it,  although  it 
had  slipped  my  mind  until  you  spoke.  I  remember — you 
are  the  girl  some  sailors  from  the  village  rescued  from  a 
wreck. 


140  THE   EVIL   DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

NATIVITY.  I  am,  senora. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  This  girl  and  a  poor  woman  who  had 
a  tiny  baby  boy  clasped  in  her  arms,  were  the  only  ones  that 
were  saved.  The  woman  died  soon  afterward,  but  they 
managed  to  preserve  the  boy's  life.  It  took  place  on  a 
Christmas  afternoon,  so  when  we  had  the  children  confirmed, 
we  changed  their  names  to  commemorate  the  event,  and 
called  them  Nativity  and  Jesus. 

TERESA.  Is  this  the  young  man? 

NATIVITY.  No — no,  senora. 

MARCHIONESS.  No,  the  boy  was  saved  from  the  wreck, 
but  he  has  since  come  to  shipwreck  in  life.  Nativity  has 
always  been  docile  and  willing,  appreciative  of  what  has  been 
done  for  her.  I  do  not  say  this  because  she  is  present — but 
whatever  good  qualities  she  has  possessed  the  boy  has  made 
up  for  in  surliness  and  rebellion.  He  ran  away  from  the 
asylum  when  he  was  eight  years  old.  You  cannot  expect  me 
to  remember  all  his  escapades  since.  We  were  sorry  when 
his  turn  came  to  be  released  on  parole  and  he  was  put  to 
work  outside.  He  is  little  better  now  than  one  of  the  wicked. 
Sometimes  he  runs  away  from  the  village,  nobody  knows 
where;  and  the  next  thing  you  hear  he  is  back  again. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  So  you  see  we  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  him. 

ASSUMPTION.  He  is  a  fine  specimen. 

TERESA.  But  were  any  of  your  family  lost  in  the  wreck  ? 

NATIVITY.  I  can't  say,  senora;  I  don't  remember.  I  was 
only  three  years  old  at  the  time. 

MARCHIONESS.  They  were  crossing  in  an  old  sailing  vessel 
from  Oran.  There  were  ten  or  twelve  in  the  party — a  troupe 
of  acrobats,  as  we  learned  from  the  boy's  mother. 

TERESA.  The  boy  who  was  saved  with  you  then  was  not 
your  brother  ? 


ACTI         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  141 

NATIVITY.  No,  senora — no. 

MARCHIONESS.  They  were  not  brother  and  sister. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Otherwise  they  could  not  have  been  en- 
gaged. 

MARCHIONESS.  This  is  no  time  to  bring  up  that  subject 
again.  The  boy's  head  was  filled  with  wild  notions,  and  he 
got  the  idea  that  Nativity  and  he  had  been  destined  for  each 
other — that  is  how  he  expressed  it,  predestined  for  each 
other.  He  had  been  reading  cheap  novels,  you  know,  and 
murder  stories  in  the  newspapers,  so  he  got  the  idea  that 
destiny  had  joined  them  together,  and  that  no  power  on 
earth  could  put  them  asunder. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Poor  Nativity !  Rather  than  marry 
that  scamp,  it  would  have  been  better  if  she  had  never  been 
saved. 

TERESA.  Is  this  young  man  your  fiance  ? 

MARTIN.  At  your  service,  senorita. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  He  is  quite  different;  he  is  honorable 
and  a  hard  worker.  Both  have  employment — she  is  a  laun- 
dress; he  is  a  carpenter.  He  works  in  our  leading  carpenter's 
shop;  she  has  a  laundry  which  we  have  fitted  up  for  her  in 
wonderful  style.  They  will  be  very  successful,  as  they  are 
well  liked  by  everybody. 

NATIVITY.  Thanks  to  you. 

MARTIN.  Thanks  to  you,  ladies. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  suppose  that  people  will  still  say  that 
women's  clubs  do  no  good. 

TERESA.  Do  you  expect  to  be  married  soon? 

NATIVITY.  Next  week.  The  final  banns  will  be  published 
on  Sunday. 

TERESA.  I  must  send  you  a  present — something  useful  for 
the  house.  Let  me  know  what  you  need. 

NATIVITY.  Thank  you,  senorita,  but  we  have  everything. 


142  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

The  ladies  are  so  kind.     Anything  at  all  will  do,  senorita; 
you  are  so  kind. 

TERESA.  I  shall  make  inquiries. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  ana  glad  that  you  came  while  Dona  Es- 
peranza  and  Dona  Assumption  were  with  us.  Although  I 
am  president,  they  are  much  more  active  than  I. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  No  indeed !  All  we  ever  do,  Mar- 
chioness, is  carry  out  your  wishes. 

MARCHIONESS.  Come  into  the  study  where  Don  Francis- 
quito  has  the  papers.  He  will  give  them  to  you.  Martin 
need  only  sign  his  name  a  couple  of  times  in  order  to  make 
everything  regular;  then  all  you  will  lack  will  be  a  blessing. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  They  will  make  an  attractive  couple. 

TERESA.  Yes,  very  interesting.' — I  don't  know  why,  but 
somehow  I  find  myself  thinking  of  the  other. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Just  like  she  is;  depend  upon  it. 

TERESA.  Do  you  mean  ? . . . . 

DON  HELIODORO.  Surely. 

TERESA.  That  is  even  more  interesting. 

MARCHIONESS.  But  we  are  losing  time. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Lead  the  way,  Marchioness. 

MARCHIONESS.  Come  with  me. 

NATIVITY.  With  your  permission. 

MARTIN.  With  your  permission,  ladies.  . . . 

Att  retire  with  the  exception  of  DON  HELIODORO  and 
TERESA. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Did  you  hear  what  they  said  about 
poor  Jesus?  There  is  not  one  word  of  truth  in  it,  as  usual. 
They  merely  expect  a  complete  surrender  in  return  for  their 
favors.  It  is  a  new  form  of  slavery.  Men  are  not  men,  they 
are  abstractions — so  many  souls  to  be  saved.  As  far  as  the 
man  is  concerned,  he  can  go  to  the  devil!  We  have  souls, 


ACT  i        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD 

but  there  is  a  considerable  admixture  of  bone  and  flesh,  of 
nerves  that  tingle,  and  blood  that  boils — we  are  alive — and 
life  means  struggle,  rebellion.  At  the  first  harmless  prank 
they  regarded  the  boy  with  suspicion.  Distrust  and  repres- 
sion were  the  correctives  employed.  Naturally  the  rebellion 
increased,  until  it  terminated  in  open  war.  The  boy  is  not 
bad,  but  by  treating  him  as  if  he  were,  they  will  make  him 
so.  He  is  in  love  with  this  girl.  There  is  a  touch  of  the 
theatric  in  his  infatuation,  it  is  true,  of  the  language  of  the 
folletins  which  he  has  been  reading;  and  it  is  ridiculous — I 
was  the  first  to  laugh  at  him — but  at  bottom  his  attachment 
is  sincere,  even  passionate.  And  the  girl  loves  him,  only  she 
is  afraid.  She  is  prepared  to  accept  a  husband  like  any 
other  alms  which  they  offer,  because  it  is  not  proper  to  re- 
fuse. Poor  people  cannot  afford  to  refuse  charity;  it  seems 
ungrateful.  But  a  husband  is  not  a  form  of  charity.  Don't 
say  now  that  I  am  talking.  Hasn't  a  man  a  right  to  talk 
when  he  sees  things  which  make  his  blood  boil  ?  You  know 
what  they  did  to  you. 

TERESA.  To  me? 

DON  HELIODOKO.  Yes,  and  you  know  it.  They  were  not 
satisfied  to  give  you  bread,  they  wanted  to  secure  your 
virtue  and  save  your  soul.  They  had  very  little  confidence 
in  you,  and  none  at  all  that  any  young  man  would  be  found 
who  would  be  willing  to  offer  you  his  love,  because  they  knew 
that  you  were  poor — they  may  have  been  right,  too — young 
men  to-day  are  very  shy  about  love;  they  are  afraid.  It 
might  embarrass  them  afterward  in  the  struggle  for  life — 
and  they  may  be  right  about  that.  Life  is  exacting  and 
hard  nowadays,  and  it  is  terribly  severe  with  the  man  who 
refuses  to  accept  things  as  they  are,  but  spends  his  time  gaz- 
ing up  at  the  stars  or  listening  idly  to  the  songs  of  nightin- 
gales. 


144  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD         M T  r 

TERESA.  But  what  have  I  to  complain  of  since  you  admit 
yourself  that  they  are  right? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  yes,  of  course  they  are  right ! 
Only  I  cannot  resign  myself  to  this  sort  of  right.  It  is  not 
my  conception  of  life.  The  struggle  for  life  never  engrossed 
me;  it  has  always  been  the  struggle  against  life  when  its  con- 
ditions became  insupportable.  That  is  how  I  come  to  be 
living  here  upon  charity,  but  refusing  to  abdicate,  like  a  king 
who  has  been  conquered  but  not  humiliated,  and  who  will 
never  surrender  his  throne  for  all  the  powers  of  this  world. 
Like  the  fallen  angel,  I  stand  alone,  preferring  to  be  a  devil 
to  an  angel  who  has  repented  and  been  forgiven.  I  am  soli- 
tary and  great  in  my  inferno,  which  explains  why  it  is  that 
I  can  afford  to  tell  you  that  it  was  a  sin  to  marry  you  to  that 
old  egotist,  who  cares  nothing  for  you  except  as  a  trust- 
worthy nurse  for  his  children,  and  a  reliable  housekeeper  to 
look  after  his  house;  that  is  why  I  can  tell  you  that  it  is  a 
crime  to  join  these  young  people  together,  whose  sense  of 
obligation  is  so  great  that  they  do  not  even  dare  admit  to 
themselves  that  they  are  not  in  love. 

TERESA.  Why  should  they  not  be  in  love?  Come,  dear 
uncle,  you  were  always  a  little  romantic  yourself.  Admit 
that  all  these  stories  of  shipwrecks  on  Christmas  eve,  of 
acrobats  and  orphans  snatched  from  the  storm,  have  induced 
you  to  compose  a  little  novel  or  melodrama  of  your  own, 
which  this  prosaic  ending  with  a  wedding  will  spoil  completely. 
The  girl  seems  very  happy  to  me. 

DON  HELIODORO.  She  is  exactly  as  happy  as  you  are. 

TERESA.  You  seem  determined  to  drag  me  into  it. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  in 
love  with  your  husband? 

TERESA.  I  mean  to  tell  you  that  it  was  no  sacrifice  for  me 
to  marry  him. 


ACT  i         THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  145 

DON  HELIODORO.  Because  you  had  never  been  in  love, 
and  you  have  not  the  slightest  idea  now  what  love  means — 
what  true  love  means.  Who  knows?  It  may  come  to-day. 

TERESA.  What  are  you  talking  about? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  the  realities  of 
life  had  crushed  out  the  ideal;  but  only  the  ideal  is  eternal, 
and  it  asserts  itself  in  the  end.  In  a  day,  in  an  hour,  it  turns 
topsy-turvy  the  best  regulated  and  most  tranquil  of  lives, 
which  had  seemed  secure  from  all  folly  or  passion  which 
might  ruffle  their  calm. 

TERESA.  I  have  no  fear  that  folly  or  passion  will  ever  dis- 
turb my  life. 

DON  HELIODORO.  They  will  some  day — perhaps  it  will 
be  only  a  great  longing  which  takes  possession  of  your 
soul,  and  you  will  not  know  the  reason;  but  it  will  be  the 
ideal,  the  ideal  which  sooner  or  later  exacts  its  part  in  our 
lives. 

NATIVITY  re-enters. 

NATIVITY.  Excuse  me. ...  May  I  speak  with  the  Senora 
Marchioness  ? 

DON  HELIODORO.  What  is  the  matter  ?  You  seem  fright- 
ened. 

TERESA.  What  has  happened? 

NATIVITY.  I  am  very  much  frightened,  si,  senora.  The 
ladies  handed  us  the  papers;  they  were  as  kind  as  they  could 
be,  God  reward  them  for  it.  Martin  and  I  left  the  house 
together,  both  so  happy,  and  bade  each  other  good-by  on 
the  corner.  He  went  to  his  shop  and  I  turned  back  to  my 
laundry,  but  no  sooner  was  I  alone  than  Jesus  appeared  and 
threw  himself  across  my  path,  and  began  to  talk  to  me  as  if 
he  were  crazy.  I  never  saw  him  like  J,hat  before;  he  always 
seemed  resigned.  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  me,  but  now 
he  says  that  he  is  going  to  kill  us,  that  he  is  going  to  kill 


146  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

himself.  I  am  sure  that  he  is  crazy.  He  wanted  to  come 
here,  too,  to  insult  the  ladies.  I  was  so  frightened  that  I 
began  to  run,  and  I  ran  back  to  the  house,  and  I  know  that 
he  is  following  me,  although  I  didn't  dare  to  look  behind, 
because  I  could  hear  him  muttering  all  the  while  and  swear- 
ing that  he  would  kill  us,  and  kill  himself,  and  kill  those  old 
busybodies — the  busybodies  were  the  ladies,  God  forgive 
him !  It  was  the  same  thing  over  and  over.  He  is  crazy. 
I  know  that  he  is  crazy.  They  must  be  prepared  for  it.  ... 

DON  HELIODORO.  The  melodrama  and  the  novel !  What 
did  I  tell  you? 

TERESA.  One  moment,  Nativity.  Did  you  ever  love 
Jesus  ? 

NATIVITY.  Of  course  I  did !  We  were  brought  up  together, 
we  were  saved  from  the  wreck  together,  our  names  were 
always  spoken  as  one,  and  we  were  both  alone  in  the  world, 
dependent  upon  alms — charity  was  all  that  we  had.  But 
he  has  turned  bad,  he  has  become  ungrateful. . . . 

TERESA.  Is  he  really  as  bad  as  they  say? 

NATIVITY.  Oh,  yes,  senora !  He  always  wants  to  have  his 
own  way.  He  is  rebellious  and  a  bad  Christian;  he  says  ter- 
rible things.  He  ran  away  from  the  asylum  once,  and  went 
about  among  the  towns  and  villages,  fighting  bulls.  Another 
time  he  ran  away  with  some  acrobats. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Naturally,  you  were  born  into  the  pro- 
fession. Didn't  you  ever  feel  like  turning  a  few  somersaults 
yourself  ? 

NATIVITY.  I?  Oh,  no,  sir!  But  when  he  was  little  I 
have  often  heard  it  said  that  all  his  bones  were  out  of  joint. 

TERESA.  How  dreadful !  He  should  have  been  punished 
severely. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  indeed;  and  it  was  worse  yet  when 
he  took  to  dislocating  beads  and  hearts. 


ACT  i        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  147 

TERESA.  Tell  me,  was  there  anything  else  that  was  wrong 
that  poor  Jesus  did? 

NATIVITY.  Oh,  yes,  senorita!  A  great  many  things. 
One  day  he  was  drunk  in  the  streets  with  Cabrera  and  La 
Repelona,  and  roused  the  whole  village  shouting  blasphemies. 
The  ladies  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him  after 
that,  although  until  then  they  had  always  forgiven  him. 

DON  HELIODORO.  In  the  heat  of  improvisation  some 
stories  came  out  which  were  of  interest  to  the  ladies.  La 
Repelona  is  pretty  well  informed  about  what  is  going  on. 
So  a  council  was  convened  and  he  was  excommunicated. 

TERESA.  So  now  you  do  not  love  Jesus? 

NATIVITY.  Love  him?  Yes,  and  I  always  shall.  I  am 
awfully  sorry  to  have  it  like  this,  but  things  are  different 
now;  he  knows  that  I  am  to  be  married,  and  he  will  have  to 
give  me  up.  Only  think  what  might  have  happened  if 
Martin  had  seen  us  together!  It  would  have  been  dread- 
ful. Men  are  so  excitable,  and  although  Martin  is  cautious, 
Jesus  would  have  insulted  him.  I  was  terribly  frightened, 
senorita,  and  I  want  the  Marchioness  to  know  all  about  it 
so  that  they  can  put  fear  into  the  heart  of  Jesus,  and  it  will 
never  happen  again. 

TERESA.  It  certainly  must  be  done. 

The  voice  of  the  SERVANT  is  heard  outside  in  altercation 
with  JESUS,  CABRERA,  and  LA  REPELONA. 

NATIVITY.  Diosmio! 

TERESA.  What?    Who  are  these  people? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Never  mind  who  they  are.  There  is  no 
cause  for  alarm.  They  are  friends  of  mine.  Here  comes 
Jesus  with  Cabrera  and  La  Repelona,  who  is  his  mistress. 
Come  in,  come  right  in!  While  I  am  here  it  will  be  per- 
fectly safe.  Have  no  fear. 

JESUS,  CABRERA,  and  LA  REPELONA  enter. 


148  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

REPELONA.  Good  morning,  everybody. 

CABRERA.  Good  morning,  Don  Heliodoro  and  company. 

JESUS.  Good  morning. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Hello,  hello !  To  what  are  we  indebted 
for  the  honor  of  this  visit  of  the  most  notable  rogues  of  this 
virtuous  community  ? 

JESUS.  We  asked  for  you,  Don  Heliodoro,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  get  in;  but  what  we  want  is  to  see  the  Marchioness  and 
the  other  ladies  of  the  Junta.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
them.  I  don't  know  what  these  people  want. 

REPELONA.  I  want  my  rights,  and  to  let  people  know  who 
is  who,  so  that  the  ladies  can  tell  what  they  are  doing  and 
not  be  deceived,  and  who  it  is  they  are  trying  to  help,  for 
they  are  preyed  upon  now  by  a  brood  of  vipers,  who  make 
them  see  white  as  black,  the  hypocrites  and  scum  of  the 
village  that  they  are;  and  they  are  the  people  who  go  about 
plastering  sins  upon  everybody  so  as  to  make  it  appear  that 
they  are  virtuous,  and  have  the  ladies  listen  to  them,  and  to 
nobody  else.  They  are  frauds  and  deceivers,  and  they 
find  out  when  it  is  the  ladies  go  to  church,  so  that  they  can 
be  there  before  them,  and  beat  themselves  on  the  breast 
and  kiss  the  ground,  and  then  they  go  out  and  do  after- 
ward ....  Aha !  I  could  tell  you  what  they  do  after- 
ward !  I  wonder  if  they  think  nobody  knows  who  they 
are?  It  would  be  a  good  deed,  too,  to  run  them  down  and 
expose  them  one  by  one  in  their  shame,  and  drag  them  out 
onto  the  streets  in  the  broad  light  of  day — and  I  am  the  one 
that  is  going  to  do  it,  too !  Take  Cacharrero's  old  woman, 
she  talks  the  most — I  will  take  her — dressed  up  in  the  robe 
of  a  penitent  last  Good  Friday  like  a  Nazarene,  when  what 
she  ought  to  have  been  doing  was  running  the  gauntlet ! 
I  will  take  her !  There  is  not  another  hussy  so  foul  in  the 
village,  no,  nor  in  hell  either,  for  that  matter;  you  can  take 
it  from  me. 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  149 

TERESA.  What  a  horrible  woman  !  I  believe  she  is  dan- 
gerous. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [To  LA  REPELONA]  Yes,  yes,  we  agree 
with  you.  But  repress  your  just  rage  and  give  the  men  a 
chance  to  talk.  Cabrera,  your  fame  has  passed  the  limits  of 
this  village.  If  I  am  right  you  are  the  third  of  your  line? 

CABRERA.  Si,  senor,  most  excellent  Senor  Don  Helio- 
doro,  I  am  Cabrera  the  Third,  at  your  service  and  the  com- 
pany's, not  to  speak  of  the  most  excellent  senorita's,  as  lovely 
as  can  be.  One  of  your  most  excellent  family,  eh,  Don 
Heliodoro?  Is  it  so? 

DON  HELIODORO.  She  is  my  niece. 

CABRERA.  May  she  long  continue  so! 

DON  HELIODORO.  But  we  are  wandering  from  the  subject. 
You  were  saying  that  you  were  the  third  of  your  line. 

CABRERA.  Si,  senor,  most  excellent  Don  Heliodoro.  You 
knew  us  all.  My  father  was  a  great  drinker,  and  my  grand- 
father was  a  great  drinker.  My  grandfather  served  in  the 
army  under  the  most  excellent  general,  Don  Ramon  Cabrera. 
This  white  cap  belonged  to  the  most  excellent  general;  he 
gave  it  to  my  grandfather. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  see:  this  cap  belonged  to  the  general, 
it  was  white,  and  he  gave  it  to  you. 

CABRERA.  It  was  a  mistake  that  I  was  not  a  soldier;  I 
was  born  to  make  war.  What  can  a  man  do  in  peace  but 
stagnate?  Drink  is  the  only  relief.  I  drink,  I  don't  stag- 
nate. People  ought  to  remember.  They  call  me  a  drunk- 
ard when  I  am  not.  A  drunkard  drinks  for  the  sake  of  drink, 
but  that  is  no  way  to  do.  La  Repelona  here,  is  a  drunkard, 
and  she  has  gotten  an  ill  name  for  us  with  the  most  excellent 
ladies  of  the  most  excellent  Junta.  I  only  give  them  their 
due;  I  suffer  abuse  with  moderation.  I  am  a  martyr  to 
my  principles,  like  ray  grandfather. 

TERESA.  Oh,  uncle !     These  people  frighten  me. 


150          THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD         ACT  i 

NATIVITY.  Seftorita,  ask  them  to  go  away. 

DON  HELIODOBO.  They  amuse  me.  Jesus,  what  have  you 
to  say  for  yourself? 

JESUS.  Nothing.  What  do  you  want  me  to  say?  I  have 
come  to  tell  the  Senora  Marchioness  and  the  other  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  the  Junta  that  I  will  do  whatever  they 
wish — I  will  go  to  work  at  whatever  they  put  me.  It  is 
not  my  fault  that  I  am  slow  at  work.  What  I  like  is  to  put 
to  sea  and  to  wander  over  the  earth,  but  I  will  do  what  they 
tell  me,  and  you  know  it.  And  that  ends  it.  I  never  did 
anything  but  run  away  twice,  and  both  times  it  was  because 
they  said  I  was  no  good,  and  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  wasn't 
some  good  and  try  myself  out  in  the  world.  One  day  I 
had  been  drinking  when  I  wasn't  used  to  it,  and  I  met  these 
people,  and  we  said  things,  and  then  the  ladies  heard  of  it; 
that  is  the  only  wrong  I  ever  did,  so  now  they  treat  me 
worse  than  if  I  were  a  thief,  and  they  will  not  have  me 
around.  Now  the  captains  of  all  the  boats  are  afraid  to 
take  me  for  fear  of  offending  the  owners,  so  I  have  had  to 
take  to  smuggling  with  the  Pimentons,  who  are  the  only 
ones  who  have  any  use  for  me.  Then  everybody  says  that 
I  keep  bad  company,  that  I  am  in  a  bad  business.  I  know 
it  is  a  bad  business,  and  some  day  the  guard  will  catch  us, 
and  we  will  all  be  shot — and  we  will  be  lucky  too  to  be  shot 
— otherwise  they  will  put  us  in  jail.  But  what  is  a  man  to 
do?  I  want  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  forgive  me,  and 
here  I  am,  and  I  am  ready  to  do  what  they  say,  you  know 
that,  if  only  they  will  tell  me. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [To  TERESA]  Was  I  right? 

TERESA.  If  he  is  telling  the  truth.    Do  you  hear,  Nativity  ? 

NATIVITY.  [Bursting  into  tears]  I  am  awfully  sorry. 

JESUS.  You  are  crying  because  you  know  that  I  am  telling 
the  truth.  You  are  afraid;  you  always  said  that  you  loved 


ACTI        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  151 

me,  and  now  you  don't  dare  to  say  it;  but  I  will  make  you 
say  it.  You  will  have  to  say  it !  You  are  going  to  say  it 
yet! 

NATIVITY.  Senorita !  I  am  so  frightened ! — The  Senora 
Marchioness ! . . . . 

The  MARCHIONESS  re-enters  with  DONA  ESPEBANZA 
and  ASSUMPTION. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  is  the  matter?  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this?  [To  NATIVITY]  Are  you  here  again?  And  what 
are  you  doing  here?  Who  are  these  people? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  never  heard  of  such  impudence. 

ASSUMPTION.  What  shameless  effrontery ! 

MARCHIONESS.  [To  HELIODORO]  Needless  to  say  you  are 
responsible. 

DON  HEMODORO.  Yes,  I  am.  The  least  that  we  can  do 
is  to  hear  what  they  have  to  say.  Jesus  asks  pardon. 

MARCHIONESS.  It  was  high  time.  Enough  has  been  par- 
doned him  already. 

DON  HELIODORO.  We  can  never  pardon  enough. 

MARCHIONESS.  We  are  aware  what  his  repentance  amounts 
to.  [To  LA  REPELONA  and  CABRERA]  Well,  what  do  you 
want  ?  Do  you  come  here  with  the  same  old  story  ?  When- 
ever you  are  in  trouble  you  appeal  to  us,  repentant  and 
humble,  and  pretend  that  you  never  wanted  to  live  with 
this  man.  You  ask  us  to  take  you  away  and  lend  you  our 
protection,  but  as  soon  as  we  do,  you  return  to  live  in  sin 
again,  and  become  the  public  shame  of  the  village. 

CABRERA.  Most  excellent  Senora  Marchioness — I  say  this 
with  all  respect  to  the  most  excellent  Senora  Marchioness 
and  to  the  most  excellent  other  ladies — this  idea  of  separating 
two  people  who  live  together  exactly  as  if  they  were  man 
and  wife .  . 


152  THE   EVIL  DOERS   OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

MARCHIONESS.  That  will  do,  that  will  do !  We  don't  care 
to  hear  the  details. 

REPELONA.  But  Senora  Marchioness,  I  can't  help  it;  it 
isn't  my  fault  that  we  are  not  married.  Nobody  knows 
where  my  husband  is — he  has  been  gone  these  ten  years, 
and  never  said  one  word  to  me  about  it.  At  this  moment  I 
couldn't  tell  you  whether  he  was  dead  or  alive.  What  is  a 
woman  to  do? 

MARCHIONESS.  We  don't  care  to  hear. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Live  decently  and  obey  the  command- 
ments. 

REPELONA.  So  I  do  live  decently.  No  one  can  say  that 
I  run  about  with  everybody,  like  some  other  people.  . .  . 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  thought  so.  More  of  your  gossip ! 
Drag  in  all  those  old  stories. 

REPELONA.  Si,  senora,  they  are  stories — stories  about 
those  women  who  deceive  you  because  they  look  like  saints 
on  the  outside.  I  could  tell  you  some  tilings  about  your 
friends,  too,  who  belong  to  this  Junta.  I  know  some  things 
about  them.  They  are  not  all  like  you  are.  Ask  Don  Gu- 
mersindo's  wife  why  it  is  that  she  goes  in  the  afternoons  to 
see  La  Cacharrera?  Some  afternoons  she  does  and  some 
she  does  not,  because  the  house  has  two  doors,  and  they  open 
on  two  streets,  and  I  could  tell  you  who  it  is  that  goes  in 
at  the  other. 

MARCHIONESS.  That  will  do,  that  will  do!  We  have  al- 
ready heard  sufficient. 

REPELONA.  How  about  the  judge's  wife? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Great  heavens !  I  always  thought 
that  at  least  she  was  respectable. 

REPELONA.  She  is  a  saint.  Believe  me,  a  saint!  That 
is  the  kind  you  help  with  your  charity,  the  ones  who  know 
how  to  lie  and  cheat  best;  and  those  of  us  who  dare  to  speak 


ACT  i         THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  153 

out  our  minds,  we  are  the  bad  ones.  Whoever  it  was  that 
turned  you  against  us,  is  going  to  get  a  piece  of  my  mind 
— she  is  going  to  hear  things!  Whoever  meddles  with  my 
mother's  daughter  settles  with  me. 

MARCHIONESS.  [Calling]  Don  Francisco !  Pedro !  Come 
quickly  !  Put  these  people  out.  [To  DON  HELIODOEO]  Well? 
What  are  you  doing? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  We  don't  care  to  hear! 

ASSUMPTION.  How  can  such  people  be? 

JESUS.  All  the  same  she  knows  what  she  is  talking  about. 
You  don't  want  to  hear  the  truth,  but  you  have  no  right  to 
do  what  you  are  doing.  You  have  no  right !  This  girl  shall 
never  marry  Martin,  because  I  say  so.  She  shall  never 
marry  any  one  but  me ! 

NATIVITY.  Senora  Marchioness ! 

MARCHIONESS.  [To  JESUS]  We  shall  attend  to  your  case. 
You  will  hear  from  the  Judge  and  the  Guardia  civil. 

JESUS.  What  shall  I  hear?  Will  they  turn  me  out  of  the 
village  ?  But  I  will  go  myself  first —  I  will  sooner  go  myself ! 
But  you  will  hear  from  me  before  I  go 

MARCHIONESS.  Unspeakable  insolence ! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  He  threatens  us ! 

MARCHIONESS.  Where  are  the  servants?  Don  Francis- 
quito ! 

DON  FRANCISQUITO  and  a  SERVANT  enter.  Simultane- 
ously the  MARQUIS  and  ENRIQUE  appear  at  another 
door. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Senora  Marchioness ! 

MARQUIS.  Aunt! 

ENRIQUE.  Mamma! 

MARCHIONESS.  Run  !    Put  these  people  out ! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  never  saw  such  an  exhibition.  Mar- 
quis, what  an  occasion  on  which  to  congratulate  you ! 


154  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

MARQUIS.  Dona  Esperanza  and  Assumption — 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Move  along  now !  You  don't  want 
us  to  use  force.  Get  out ! 

REPELONA.  Yes,  we  will  move  along.  But  you  will  hear 
from  us !  We  are  going  to  have  our  say  somewhere. 

CABRERA.  Martyrs  submit  to  abuse  with  resignation. 

JESUS.  And  you — do  you  hear?  You  will  never  marry 
Martin. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Silence  all  of  you !  To  the  street  to 
get  drunk !  Shout  there  as  much  as  you  like ....  To  the 
street,  I  tell  you  ! 

JESUS,  LA  REPELONA,  CABRERA,  DON  FRANCISQUITO 
and  the  SERVANT  retire  in  confusion,  all  talk-ing  at 
the  same  time. 

MARCHIONESS.  Now  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

NATIVITY.  Oh,  Senorita ! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Put  it  out  of  your  mind.  His  case 
will  receive  attention. 

MARQUIS.  Ungrateful  people,  eh?  I  thought  so.  Un- 
appreciative  of  what  has  been  done  for  them. 

ASSUMPTION.  Judge  for  yourself. 

MARCHIONESS.  [To  DON  HELIODORO]  Of  course  you  are  at 
the  bottom  of  it. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Yes,  you  !    You  ! 

ASSUMPTION.  You  urge  them  on. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  revel  in  their  shame,  you  lead  them 
into  our  presence,  you  lure  them  into  temptation — as  if  they 
had  not  already  temptation  enough ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  do,  eh  ?  Come,  come,  I  don't  want  to 
disgrace  myself,  but  discomfort  for  discomfort,  I  prefer  the 
headaches  I  suffer  to  the  pain  which  you  give  me.  Good 
day,  ladies.  [Goes  out. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Nativity  is  fainting. 


ACT  i         THE  EVIL  DOERS   OF   GOOD  155 

MARCHIONESS.  No  wonder — after  the  shock.  He  threat- 
ened her. 

ASSUMPTION.  Pay  no  attention  to  what  he  said.  He  will 
learn  what  is  good  for  him. 

MARQUIS.  Doing  good  is  nothing  but  one  annoyance  after 
another. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  have  no  conception  -of  it,  my  dear 
Marquis.  When  we  appear  on  the  street,  this  hussy  will 
be  lying  in  wait  for  us,  to  fling  it  in  our  teeth. 

MARQUIS.  You  must  allow  me  to  come  along. 

ASSUMPTION.  Yes;    come,    Nativity Get    the    child 

something. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  A  cup  of  tea. 

MARCHIONESS.  Take  her  into  the  dining-room.  Bring 
medicine. 

MARQUIS.  Disgusting ! 

All  retire  with  the  exception  of  TERESA  and  ENRIQUE, 
who  linger  as  if  by  chance. 

ENRIQUE.  Well,  you  heard  all  of  it. 

TERESA.  Yes;  and  I  am  awfully  sorry.  Poor  fellow! 
He  may  be  bad,  but  when  you  listen  to  him  it  doesn't  seem 
possible. 

ENRIQUE.  No,  it  doesn't.  I  agree  with  you.  I  think  that 
Jesus  is  the  one  who  ought  to  marry  Nativity.  It  would  be 
more  appropriate. 

TERESA.  Yes.  .  .  .but  you  know  all  life  is  not  like  that. 

ENRIQUE.  There  are  many  charming  things  about  life. 

TERESA.  Do  you  think  so? 

ENRIQUE.  You,  for  instance. 

TERESA.  Why,  cousin  !    Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

ENRIQUE.  No,  no !  Hush !  Now  don't  you  repeat  what 
I  said. 


LJU  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD         ACT  i 

TERESA.  To  nobody;  don't  you  worry.  It  can  remain 
a  secret  between  us.  Don't  you  think  it  is  charming  to  have 
secrets  ? 

ENRIQUE.  Charming?     Very. 

Curtain 


THE    SECOND    ACT 

The  garden  of  the  house  of  the  MARCHIONESS  OF  CASA  MOLINA. 
An  iron  fence  at  the  rear,  in  the  middle  of  which  is  a 
gate.  There  are  two  armchairs  and  six  smaller  wicker  chairs. 

It  is  day. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO  is  seated  in  one  oj  the  armchairs,  fast 
asleep.  A  book  lies  open  upon  his  knees.  Presently  DON 
HELIODORO  enters  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  garden. 

DON  HELIODORO.  [Calling]  Don  Francisquito !  DonFran- 
cisquito  !  Don  Francisquito ....  quito ....  quito ....  quito .... 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  [Waking  up]  Eh  ?  Ah !  Don  Helio- 
doro 

DON  HELIODORO.  Taking  a  siesta? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  No,  I  was  reading,  as  you  see.  A 
most  interesting  book.  ...  It  is  too  hot  in  my  room. 

DON  HELIODORO.  So  it  is  in  mine.  The  only  comfortable 
rooms  in  the  house  are  those  reserved  for  guests.  We  poor 
sinners  are  allowed  to  mortify  ourselves.  Frizzling  here  and 
the  mosquito  bites  will  be  credited  to  us  hereafter. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Don  Heliodoro,  why  will  you  be  so 
sacrilegious?  You  were  not  always  an  unbeliever. 

DON  HELIODORO.  No,  but  that  was  when  I  had  money. 
What  do  you  expect  ?  When  a  man  has  money  he  can  be- 
lieve  in  anything.  By  the  way,  that  reminds  me.  ... 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Speaking  of  money?  I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  I  went  without  my  siesta  so  as  to 
find  you  alone.  Whenever  you  suspect  that  I  have  occa- 

157 


158  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  n 

sion  for  a  word  or  two,  you  slip  through  my  fingers  like  an 
eel. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  So  as  to  avoid  discussion. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Discussion  !  Discussion  !  You  are  the 
one  who  could  avoid  discussion.  Come,  Don  Francisquito, 
let  us  not  have  any  discussion  to-day.  I  feel  sure  that  we 
will  not  have  any. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  No,  sir,  we  will  not.  Once  for  all, 
I  might  as  well  tell  you  in  plain  terms — no,  no,  no ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  Now  you  are  beginning  the  discussion. 
No !  no !  You  always  say  the  same  thing. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Because  you  always  ask  the  same 
thing — money,  money. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Money  ?  Anybody  would  think  to  hear 
you  talk.  .  .  .  Money?  An  advance  of  fifteen  duros,  a 
trifling  advance? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  But,  Don  Heliodoro,  we  have  not 
reached  the  fifteenth.  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  spent 
your  entire  allowance? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Don  Francisquito,  I  am  willing  to  take 
a  great  deal  from  you,  but,  remember,  I  can  never  consent 
to  call  that  pittance  an  allowance.  Forty  dollars  an  allow- 
ance ? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Yes,  but  forty  dollars  in  two  weeks. 
How  is  it  possible  to  spend  so  much  in  this  place? 

DON  HELIODORO.  It  isn't  that  I  spend  it  in  this  place.  JL^ 
spend  it  on  myself,  for  my  own  purposes — which  I  consider 
a  capital  investment.  It  would  be  the  same  anywhere. 
Lucullus  eats  only  at  the  table  of  Lucullus;  Heliodoro  lives 
only  to  himself,  not  in  this  village  nor  in  that.  It  is  I;  I 
am  the  man. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Now  you  are  joking.  Let  us  not  de- 
scend to  that  level.  You  know  that  the  Marchioness  has 


ACTH       THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  159 

forbidden  me  to  lend  you  money,  or  to  make  you  any  ad- 
vance. 

DON  HELIODORO.  What  necessity  is  there  of  her  knowing 
anything  about  it? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  A  nice  question  for  you  to  ask,  when 
you  are  always  the  one  who  lets  her  know. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  ?  I  ?  Do  I  tell  her  that  you  advance 
me  money  ? 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  No,  it  isn't  necessary  to  tell  her.  Do 
you  think  that  anybody  needs  to  be  told  when  you  have 
money?  It  is  the  same  thing  every  month:  from  the  first 
to  the  tenth  the  going  is  bad ;  from  the  tenth  to  the  fifteenth, 
days  of  bonanza ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  As  the  weather  man  has  it,  fair  and 
warmer. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  If  I  relax  a  little,  from  the  fifteenth 
to  the  twentieth  increasing  cloudiness,  followed  by  storms, 
hurricanes,  and  high  seas.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  this 
month,  in  so  far  as  it  is  in  my  control,  that  we  are  going  to 
have  settled  weather. 

DON  HELIODORO.  You  are  a  Gracian  when  it  comes  to 
constructing  allegories.  However,  to  reconsider.  . .  . 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  No,  no !  Not  to-day.  If  you  insist, 
I  shall  speak  to  the  Marchioness.  This  month,  no  advance. 

DON  HELIODORO.  But  Don  Francisquito,  we  are  talking  at 
cross-purposes.  We  have  not  the  same  thing  in  mind.  I 
have  been  unlucky  this  month  at  the  Club;  I  have  lost 
abominably  at  tresillo.  I  have  debts — gaming  debts.  You 
know  gaming  debts  are  debts  of  honor. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Is  that  so?  When  you  play  with 
me,  you  never  pay  when  you  lose.  Where  are  those  four 
duros  you  owe  me  from  the  other  night? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Exactly  what  I  say.     Gaming  debts  are 


160  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD        ACT  n 

sacred.  Don't  make  me  blush  for  four  duros.  Let  me  have 
twenty,  and  out  of  the  surplus  I'll  pay  you  on  the  spot. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Come,  Don  Heliodoro,  what  is  the 
use  of  wasting  time  over  this  foolishness  ?  If  you  can  get 
along  with  ten  pesetas,  I  can  let  you  have  them,  and  not  as 
an  advance  either,  but  out  of  my  own  pocket — ten  pesetas 
which  you  are  at  liberty  to  add  to  that  sacred  debt  of  honor. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Ten  pesetas  ?  I  have  not  fallen  so  low. 
No,  no,  keep  your  ten  pesetas.  Ah,  Heliodoro,  Heliodoro, 
you  never  expected  this !  This  is  the  last  degradation ! 
Give  me  twenty-five  anyway;  it  is  only  fifteen  more,  and  it 
won't  be  such  a  humiliation. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Don  Heliodoro,  ten  are  all  I  have. 
Believe  me. .  .  . 

DON  HELIODORO.  Never  mind;  let  us  not  get  into  another 
discussion.  Hand  over  the  ten  pesetas.  I  must  drain  the 
cup.  Now  you  owe  me  fifteen.  Somehow  or  other  when 
we  leave  off  you  always  owe  me  money. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Not  a  hint  to  the  Marchioness,  what- 
ever happens. 

DON  HELIODORO.  On  ten  pesetas  ?  Who  do  you  think  I 
am  ?  It  is  like  chaining  an  eagle  in  a  dungeon  underground. 
TERESA  enters, 

TERESA.  Hello,  uncle ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  Couldn't  you  sleep  either?  What  dis- 
turbed your  siesta  ? 

TERESA.  I  never  take  one. 

DON  HELIODORO.  No,  your  husband  won't  let  you.  He 
snores  terribly — I  can  hear  him  now.  By  the  way,  since 
we  are  alone,  how  I  do  detest  your  husband ! 

TERESA.  For  heaven's  sake,  uncle,  how  can  -you  say  such 
a  thing?  Besides,  we  are  not  alone. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Oh,  Don  Francisquito  is  in  the  secret ! 


ACTH        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  161 

He  is  in  all  the  secrets — secret  service.  His  post  is  at  the 
keyhole. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Don  Heliodoro !  Fortunately,  the 
Marchioness  does  not  believe  what  you  say. 

DON  HELIODORO.  No;  we  understand  each  other,  Don 
Suave — which  is  what  I  call  him.  It  is  too  bad  to  see  such 
exceptional  diplomatic  ability  wasted  in  this  back  country. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  Now,  Don  Heliodoro. . . . 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  leave  it  to  you  whether  striking  a  bal- 
ance between  the  ten  or  twelve  ladies  who  buzz  about  this 
community,  is  not  more  difficult  than  to  preserve  the  equilib- 
rium of  Europe. 

DON  FRANCISQUITO.  I  must  retire  now,  Sefiora  Mar- 
chioness. We  all  know  Don  Heliodoro ....  [Goes  out. 

DON  HELIODORO.  A  fool  and  his  money  are  soon  parted. 
However,  let  us  return  to  your  husband. 

TERESA.  Uncle,  you  are  perfectly  outrageous. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Stop !  I  know  that  you  agree  with  me, 
otherwise  I  should  say  nothing.  I  cannot  abide  these  people 
who  have  only  one  idea,  who  lay  out  their  lives  in  a  straight 
line  exactly  parallel  to  that  idea,  and  then  pride  them- 
selves upon  making  their  conduct  conform  to  it— just  as  if 
our  ideas  were  ever  anything  more  than  our  temperament 
or  convenience.  Your  husband  is  disgustingly  consistent, 
naturally;  he  is  all  of  a  piece.  He  is  one  of  the  sort  of  men 
who  measure  even  their  smiles  off  upon  a  scale,  so  much  for 
their  equals,  so  much  for  their  inferiors,  so  much  for  their 
superiors.  How  condescending  he  is  to  those  of  us  who 
don't  agree  with  him!  He  seems  to  be  saying:  Unfortu- 
nately, I  have  to  put  up  with  you  here,  but  hereafter — you 
will  be  in  hell  while  I  shall  be  in  glory,  with  my  robes  pressed 
and  gold  shoes  on.  Class  distinction,  you  see.  The  man  is 
insufferable.  Give  me  genuine  saints,  Saint  Francises,  Santa 


162  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD        ACT  n 

Teresas,  Saint  Pauls,  or  otherwise  red-hot  fanatics  who  are 
all  passion  and  fire — Savonarolas,  Calvins,  Torquemadas, 
but  none  of  these  modern  candied  Tartuffes,  who  neither 
take  fire  spiritually  themselves  nor  burn  us  materially — and 
come  armed  only  with  safety-pins  !  They  get  on  my  nerves; 
they  infuriate  me.  One  of  them  will  turn  a  whole  family 
into  purgatory,  as  I  have  learned  by  experience.  And  imag- 
ine how  many  there  must  be  in  the  world !  They  are  the 
people  who  plume  and  puff  themselves  up  if  you  are  foolish 
enough  to  tolerate  them  out  of  good  nature.  They  take  your 
tolerance  as  a  sign  of  weakness,  or  else  for  the  respect  which 
is  their  due.  If  you  oppose  them  out  of  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  ah ! — they  are  the  first  to  invoke  liberty  and 
the  right  of  free  speech,  which  they  detest,  and  the  tolerance 
which  they  never  practise  themselves.  Bad  stock !  Thor- 
oughly bad ! 

TERESA.  You  are  excited,  uncle. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  free  my  mind  because  I  have  suffered 
a  good  deal  in  our  family.  I  will  admit  that  I  was  foolish 
and  made  mistakes  when  my  father  died,  and  I  found  a  for- 
tune on  my  hands.  I  had  been  brought  up  so  strictly,  with 
such  severity,  that  I  broke  loose  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 
free,  by  natural  reaction.  And  the  usual  thing  happened. 
My  will  had  never  been  fortified;  it  had  been  undermined — 
according  to  the  orthodox  theory  of  education  and  govern- 
ment in  Spain.  I  compromised  myself  horribly.  It  was  a 
hard  lesson,  but  it  might  have  been  profitable  if  they  had 
only  treated  me  in  the  right  spirit.  But  not  at  all;  I  was 
regarded  as  absolutely  incapable,  and  bullied  as  if  I  were  a 
child  again,  when  for  the  first  time  I  was  really  beginning 
to  be  a  man.  My  brother-in-law,  the  Marquis  of  Casa 
Molina,  was  an  exact  counterpart  of  your  husband;  he  was 
obsessed  by  his  ideas,  by  his  principles.  He  crippled  him- 


ACT  ii        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  163 

self  to  help  my  brother  Ramon,  your  father — you  know  what 
he  was — he  was  no  better  than  I — and  he  helped  me  too. 
But  how?  He  humiliated  us  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  he 
incapacitated  us  forever  from  attempting  to  restore  our 
credit,  our  fortune.  Your  father  died  broken-hearted,  while 
I  was  forced  to  leave  the  woman  who  was  my  whole  life,  I 
was  forced  to  abandon  her  with  a  child  who  was  my  idol, 
my  ideal,  the  hope  of  my  future,  and  compelled  to  marry  a 
woman  they  picked  out  for  me.  I  don't  need  to  tell  you 
what  a  success  my  married  life  was !  They  overran  me  like 
an  invading  army  in  the  name  of  their  principles;  they  rav- 
aged my  most  private  affairs,  our  home,  our  hearts.  And  I, 
because  I  had  no  will  of  my  own  at  the  time,  submitted  to 
it  meekly.  I  believed  that  the  honor  and  good  name  of  our 
family  took  precedence  of  all  else,  and  had  to  be  saved  at 
whatever  cost,  because  they  told  me  so.  And  they  were 
saved,  everything  was  saved,  except  the  woman  I  loved  and 
the  boy  I  adored,  while  I.  . .  .1  am  not  I  any  more,  because 
there  is  nothing  left  to  me  which  is  mine,  and  I  only  know 
that  I  am  the  same  man  when  I  burst  out  like  this  in  sav- 
age protest,  or  sometimes  in  ironic  scorn,  like  the  raving  of 
the  mad,  or  in  surly  rebellion  which  no  doubt  seems  to  them 
ingratitude,  or  else  with  tears  in  my  eyes  which  well  up 
within  me — seldom,  very  seldom — when  I  find  myself  alone, 
or  with  some  one  like  you,  who  can  weep  with  me,  and  then 
I  feel  for  both  of  us,  because  you  have  suffered  some  of  the 
things  which  I  have  suffered,  and  you  know  how  I  feel. 
For  you  do,  my  poor  girl ! 

TEHESA.  I  know,  uncle,  I  know.  I  should  never  have 
dared  to  confess  it  to  any  one  else.  I  am  dreadfully  un- 
happy ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?     My  poor  girl ! 
ENRIQUE  enters. 


164  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD        ACT  n 

ENRIQUE.  Are  you  here?  I  thought  there  was  somebody 
in  the  garden. 

TERESA.  You  couldn't  hear  us  from  your  room? 

ENRIQUE.  No;  but  I  came  down  out  of  curiosity.  I  was 
hiding — in  ambush. 

TERESA.  In  ambush  ? 

DON  HELIODORO.  There  was  nothing  to  ambush. 

ENRIQUE.  Oh,  yes  !     Something  interesting. 

TERESA.  There  was?     Tell  us,  tell  us. 

ENRIQUE.  Since  mamma  brought  Nativity  to  our  house 
to  stay  until  she  is  married  to  Martin,  you  know  that  the 
poor  girl  has  not  been  out  once,  so  as  to  avoid  any  scenes 
such  as  we  had  the  other  day. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  a  sort  of  anticipatory  confinement. 

ENRIQUE.  And  we  have  heard  nothing  more  about  Jesus. 

TERESA.  No,  they  say  he  has  gone  to  Brazil,  or  some  other 
place. 

DON  HELIODORO.  While  they  were  telling  her,  I  noticed 
that  all  the  ladies  kept  their  eyes  glued  upon  the  girl  so  as 
to  see  how  she  took  it. 

TERESA.  She  took  it  very  calmly. 

ENRIQUE.  That  is  what  I  thought;  and  the  reason  was 
that  she  knew  he  was  here  all  the  time. 

TERESA.  No! 

ENRIQUE.  Wait  and  see.  Of  course  everybody  is  in  the 
house  taking  a  siesta  in  the  afternoon. 

DON  HELIODORO.  All  respectable  people  are.  Your  mother 
has  issued  a  decree  from  which,  as  usual,  there  is  no  appeal: 
"At  this  hour  nobody  is  permitted  in  the  garden."  But  we 
have  undertaken  to  demonstrate  that  we  are  permitted  here. 
As  with  most  things  which  are  forbidden,  all  that  you  need 
do  is  take  the  dare. 

TERESA.  Let  Enrique  finish. 


ACTH        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  165 

ENRIQUE.  I  came  down  here  yesterday — for  some  reason 
I  wasn't  able  to  sleep — and  picked  up  a  book. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  know;  it  was  mine.  I  missed  it.  By 
the  way,  if  I  were  you,  I  don't  think  I  would  show  it  to  my 
mother. 

ENRIQUE.  Why,  uncle !  No,  I  am  sure  it  wasn't  your 
book. . . . 

DON  HELIODORO.  Oh,  very  well !  It  is  nothing  to  me — 
although  I  noticed  that  it  was  short  three  or  four  illustrations. 

ENRIQUE.  Uncle! 

TERESA.  What  was  the  book  ? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Oh,  some  trash  or  other — "  The  Nude  in 
Art" — I  forget.  Better  keep  your  eye  on  the  pictures,  or 
your  mother  will  confiscate  them. 

ENRIQUE.  You  are  joking. 

DON  HELIODORO.  However,  continue;  Teresa  doesn't 
mind. 

ENRIQUE.  Am  I  boring  you? 

DON  HELIODORO.  No,  no;  this  is  interesting. 

ENRIQUE.  Well,  as  I  say,  I  was  in  the  dining-room,  read- 
ing, when  all  at  once  I  heard  footsteps  coming  very  softly  in 
my  direction,  and  I  saw  Nativity  in  the  garden,  looking  about 
cautiously  from  one  side  to  the  other;  presently  she  went  to 
the  gate  and  opened  it  to  admit  Jesus,  and  they  both  began 
to  talk,  and  they  stayed  there  talking  for  half  an  hour,  and 
when  he  said  good-by .... 

DON  HELIODORO.  He  gave  her  a  kiss. 

ENRIQUE.  Were  you  looking,  too  ? 

DON  HELIODORO.  No,  but  it  was  just  as  good. 

TERESA.  Why,  could  you  hear  ? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  the  kiss.  That  was  enough  for  me. 
So  I  judged  that  they  were  getting  along. 


166 

ENRIQUE.  Yes,  for  I  heard  something.  He  is  coming  back 
to-day. 

TERESA.  To-day? 

ENRIQUE.  At  this  hour;  that  is  the  reason  I  hurried  down. 
However,  since  you  were  here.  .  .  . 

TERESA.  We  have  disturbed  the  combination?  What  a 
pity ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  It  may  not  be  too  late  yet.  This  inter- 
ests me.  Let  us  separate,  each  in  a  different  direction.  I 
will  pretend  that  I  am  going  out  to  the  street,  and  will  come 
back  through  the  carriage-house;  you  make  believe  that 
you  are  returning  into  the  main  house,  and  then  come  out 
and  hide  wherever  you  are  able.  We  must  see,  we  must 
hear. . . . 

TERESA.  Yes,  we  must.     This  interests  me. 

ENRIQUE.  It  does  me,  it  does  me !  It  is  as  good  as  a 
novel. 

DON  HELIODORO.  With  illustrations.  Now  separate,  and 
then  to  your  places. 

TERESA.  Hurry,  hurry !    I  wonder  where  I  can  hide  ? 

ENRIQUE.  Come  with  me,  I  will  show  you. 

TERESA.  If  we  hide  together  they  will  be  more  apt  to 
see  us. 

ENRIQUE.  Not  at  all;  I  know  some  splendid  places. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  he  knows  more  than  you  think. 

ENRIQUE.  Uncle! 

DON  HELIODORO.  Good-by,  then.  We  meet  here  to  com- 
pare observations.  I  am  in  my  element. 

He  goes  out  at  the  back,  ivhile  TERESA  and  ENRIQUE  con- 
ceal themselves  upon  the  left  of  the  garden.  Presently 
NATIVITY  enters  from  the  left,  toward  the  rear.  JESUS 
appears  upon  the  right.  , 


ACT  ii        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  167 

JESUS.  I  was  afraid  you  weren't  coming;  I  thought  may  be 
you  had  deceived  me  yesterday  so  as  to  get  me  to  go  away. 

NATIVITY.  No,  there  were  people  in  the  garden,  and  I 
-think  some  one  is  here  now.  .  .  .  No,  it's  only  the  young 
Marchioness;  she  is  nice;  she  won't  say  anything.  She  has 
been  good  to  me,  and  I  am  fond  of  her.  She  is  kind.  But  I 
can't  stay  long. 

JESUS.  You  can't?  Why  not?  I  sail  to-night.  Have 
you  anything  to  tell  me? 

NATIVITY.  What  should  I  have  to  tell  you  ? 

JESUS.  Something.  That  you  are  sorry,  that  you  are  glad, 
whatever  you  feel.  You  never  say  anything. 

NATIVITY.  What  could  I  say  ?  It  isn't  true  that  I  am  glad. 
You  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  said  that  I  was  sorry,  so  it 
would  be  the  same  as  if  it  wasn't  true.  That  is  the  reason 
I  didn't  say  anything.  It's  the  best  way. 

JESUS.  We  shall  never  see  each  other  again.  I  can't  be- 
lieve it — separate,  never  see  each  other  again,  never  hear  of 
each  other. 

NATIVITY.  Why  can't  we  hear  of  each  other? 

JESUS.  Do  you  think  I  would  write  to  your  house,  or  that 
he  would  let  you  write  to  me?  No,  I  take  that  back;  he 
might  let  you  after  all,  since  he  never  loved  you.  He  is 
only  marrying  you  for  what  he  can  get  out  of  it. 

NATIVITY.  I  don't  believe  it.  He  loves  me;  we  both  love 
each  other. 

JESUS.  You  don't;  that's  a  lie — it's  a  lie!  You  never 
spoke  to  each  other  alone  more  than  twice  in  your  lives,  and 
so  you  have  always  had  to  say  what  you  thought  you  ought 
to.  You  don't  call  that  love;  love  is  saying  everything  that 
you  have  in  your  heart,  good  or  bad — the  whole  of  it.  But 
he — -what  has  he  ever  told  you?  What  do  you  know  about 
him?  What  other  people  ha^e  said.  That  he  is  honest, 


168          THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  u 

that  he  is  a  good  worker — and  I  don't  deny  it — that  he  is 
well-behaved;  naturally — the  first  business  they  started  him 
at  happened  to  suit.  They  struck  his  taste,  his  ability. 
Every  man  is  good  at  something;  there  must  be  something, 
too,  that  I  could  do,  and  I  mean  to  find  it.  I  read  once 
somewhere  that  the  men  who  have  done  most  in  the  world, 
were  always  stupid  and  slow  at  first,  and  badly  thought  of, 
and  everybody  always  believed  that  they  were  good  for 
nothing.  That  was  the  way  with  Christopher  Columbus, 
who  discovered  America;  and  most  of  the  saints  and  wise 
men,  when  they  began,  were  something  terrible. 

NATIVITY.  You  ought  not  to  read  such  books,  Jesus;  you 
would  be  better  off  if  you  hadn't  read  all  those  bad  things. 
They  have  made  you  what  you  are. 

JESUS.  What  I  am,  what  I  am !  God  knows  what  I  have 
done  that  is  too  bad  to  be  forgiven.  I  am  no  ingrate,  and  I 
never  was,  although  people  may  say  so;  but  I  haven't  had 
the  chance  that  you  have.  Women  always  seem  to  fit  in 
better  everywhere;  and  you  have  always  been  treated  as  if 
you  came  from  this  village.  But  I  have  always  been  a 
stranger — I  have  come  from  a  great  way  off,  because  they 
knew  my  mother  was  from  Africa,  and  because  I  was  born 
there  in  Oran,  but  of  Spanish  parents,  you  know  that;  and 
when  I  was  a  boy  they  always  called  me  the  Moor  and  the 
Jew,  and  the  little  acrobat,  or  something  of  the  sort — it  was 
always  the  same  tune:  "Blood  will  tell,  blood  will  tell!" 
It  wasn't  so  with  you;  you  were  so  small  and  pale  and  golden- 
haired,  that  everybody  always  felt  as  if  you  had  been  born 
by  a  miracle  out  of  the  sea  and  the  sky,  since  they  didn't 
know  who  your  mother  was,  nor  whether  you  had  any  peo- 
ple, nor  where  you  came  from;  you  were  alone,  and  every- 
body loved  you,  but  not  me — nobody  loved  me.  They  ought 
to  have  let  me  drown;  that  would  have  been  the  truest  charity. 


ACT  n       THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD          169 

NATIVITY.  You  mustn't  talk  so  bitterly.  You  show  that 
you  are  ungrateful  for  what  has  been  done. 

JESUS.  When  you  give  a  man  life,  and  the  life  is  not  worth 
the  living,  do  you  do  him  a  favor? 

NATIVITY.  It  is  getting  late,  Jesus.  The  ladies  and  gentle- 
men will  be  coming  out.  [A  pause. 

JESUS.  When  is  the  wedding? 

NATIVITY.  Sunday;  you  know  that.  You  mustn't  ask 
me  again.  We  are  not  going  to  talk  about  it  any  more. 

JESUS.  No,  nor  about  anything  else — not  a  thing.  I  will 
be  far  away  from  here  before  Sunday.  They  say  that  every 
mile  is  a  year  when  a  man  wants  to  forget.  Now  I  shall  find 
out  whether  it  is  true  or  not. 

NATIVITY.  I  hear  some  one  in  the  house. 

JESUS.  How  careful  you  are !  If  they  see  me  you'll  lose 
your  place,  I  suppose?  Well,  you  won't  lose  it  upon  my 
account.  I  am  too  anxious  to  see  you  get  on. 

NATIVITY.  Jesus !  [A  pause. 

JESUS.  No,  you  will  have  to  be  the  one  to  say  good-by 
first.  I  am  not  going  to  say  it. 

NATIVITY.  But  don't  you  see.  . . .     You  know  I  love  you. 

JESUS.  What  kind  of  love  is  it?  You  don't  love  me  as  I 
love  you;  I  have  never  looked  at  another  woman  in  all  my 
life — only  you.  There  has  never  been  any  other  woman 
for  me — it  was  as  if  other  women  did  not  exist.  I  thought 
God  had  saved  us  together  never  to  let  us  part.  Why,  if 
you  really  loved  me — what  wouldn't  you  do,  what  wouldn't 
you  dare? 

NATIVITY.  No,  don't  begin  that  again,  like  you  did  yes- 
terday. That  isn't  loving  me;  it  is  being  wicked.  What? 
Run  away  ?  Run  away  like  a  bad  woman  ?  Never,  never ! 

JESUS.  You  are  right.  What  would  the  ladies  say,  and 
everybody?  What  could  you  hope  for  from  me?  Tt  would 


170          THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  n 

be  too  much  like  trusting  yourself  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord, 
and  the  Lord  doesn't  perform  miracles  every  day.  He  saved 
us  once,  and  people  here  have  done  the  rest.  Yes,  t  licy  have  ! 
They  have  given  us  bread,  they  have  provided  us  with  shel- 
ter, and  now  they  say  that  they  have  done  us  good. 

NATIVITY.  And  they  have;  only  you  don't  know  how  to 
appreciate  it. 

JESUS.  I  might  have  once;  but  now  they  persecute  me, 
they 

NATIVITY.  It  may  be  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
you.  Who  knows  but  that  you  may  be  happy  yet,  and  rich  ? 

JESUS.  May  you  never  be ! 

NATIVITY.  Is  that  the  way  you  love  me? 

JESUS.  So  that  you  will  always  think  of  me.  If  you  were 
happy,  how  would  you  think  of  me?  You  would  always 
say:  I  did  right  when  I  did  it,  and  you  would  never  be  sorry. 

NATIVITY.  That  is  no  way  to  talk. 

JESUS.  It  is  the  way  I  feel.  I  tell  you  I  feel  a  great  many 
things  which  I  keep  to  myself.  Come,  say  good-by,  good-by 
— forever  !  I  shan't  say  it.  Never !  Though  they  pretend 
I  am  an  unbeliever,  I  believe  in  God — and  I  believe  that  it 
will  not  be  forever.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  can't  believe 
it.  It  is  impossible.  Come.  . .  . 

NATIVITY.  Good-by. 

JESUS.  No,  I  am  not  going  to  kiss  you.  Keep  your  kisses 
for  him.  Mine  was  the  first  kiss,  and  it  is  worth  all  the 
others. 

He  runs  out  by  the  gate  by  which  he  came  in.  NATIVITY 
remains  behind  in  tears,  but  retires  when  she  hears  the 
others  approaching. 

TERESA  and  ENRIQUE  reappear  from  the  left,  and  DON 
HELIODORO  from  the  right. 


ACT  ii        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  171 

TERESA.  Did  you  hear  what  they  said? 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  did.     Did  you  ? 

ENRIQUE.  Every  word.     Poor  Jesus ! 

TERESA.  Poor  Nativity ! 

ENRIQUE.  I  am  not  sorry  for  her.  If  she  really  loved 
him.  . . . 

TERESA.  What  do  you  know  about  it?  I  tell  you  she  is 
the  one  I  am  most  sorry  for. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  am  sorry  for  both  of  them — or  for 
neither,  unless  they  accept  my  advice.  I  am  going  to  follow 
Jesus,  take  him  by  the  hand  and  reason  with  him,  and  then 
— and  then  you  will  see.  Oh,  you  will  see ! 

TERESA.  But  uncle ! 

Dox  HELIODORO.  No !  Don't  look  at  me.  I  am  sober 
to-day,  and  before  I  am  done  I  may  be  soberer  yet.  I  can 
fix  this  thing,  or  else  nobody  can.  I  feel  myself  a  protecting 
angel,  a  benevolent  fairy  such  as  you  see  in'  the  extravaganzas. 
All  I  want  is  a  talisman,  and  there  is  only  one  talisman  that 
amounts  to  anything — money.  Money !  With  ten  pesetas 
that  you  have  borrowed,  you  can't  expect  to  work  mira- 
cles. But  we  shall  see  what  can  be  done,  we  shall  see — by 
Heliodoro,  the  love  sprite !  Get  ready  the  calciums  for  the 
apotheosis.  [Disappears,  following  JESUS. 

ENRIQUE.  He  will  do  something  awful. 

TERESA.  We  can't  help  it;  the  result  will  tell.  Sense, 
nonsense — what  is  the  difference  ?  Who  knows  ?  The  re- 
sult will  tell. 

ENRIQUE.  I  wonder  if  you  were  as  anxious  as  I  was  to 
have  Nativity  not  be  so  sensible?  You  ought  to  hear 
mamma  and  the  other  ladies — they  are  so  proud  of  their 
committee.  They  believe  that  the  happiness  of  every  one 
they  meet  is  dependent  upon  them  in  this  life,  besides  sal- 
vation in  the  next.  What  would  they  say  to  this?  I  un- 


172  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  n 

derstand  why  the  girl  is  afraid.  But  what  I  want  to  know 
is  who  gave  them  the  right  to  dispose  of  other  people's 
hearts?  Of  course,  they  tell  us  that  they  allow  them  per- 
fect liberty — they  are  free  to  do  as  they  please.  "We  merely 
suggest,  we  propose 

TERESA.  Yes,  but  when  you  suggest  and  propose  upon  the 
strength  of  past  favors,  when  the  slightest  dissent  is  inter- 
preted as  ingratitude,  or  a  hint  of  refusal  as  disobedience .... 
when  one  is  alone  in  the  world,  and  to  refuse  is  to  launch 
out  into  the  unknown,  or,  what  is  worse,  into  poverty, 
which  is  known,  where  nobody  is  so  strong  that  he  can  an- 
swer for  his  conscience  or  for  his  acts — Ah !  you  don't  know 
what  a  coward  it  makes  of  one  to  be  poor,  unless  you  have 
gone  through  it — deprived  of  everything  which  makes  life 
happy,  which  puts  independence  into  the  heart  or  courage 
into  the  soul  to  face  the  grind  of  every  day.  From  one 
year's  end  to  the  other,  it  is  nothing  but  struggle  and  despair. 
Only  those  who  have  been  poor  can  appreciate  what  it  means 
to  succumb,  or  can  sympathize  with  those  who  fall  by  the 
wayside.  No  one  else  has  a  right  to  judge. 

ENRIQUE.  I  know.  Think  what  it  must  mean  for  a  woman 
who  is  alone  in  the  world.  I  can  understand  why  Nativity 
resigns  herself.  It  is  sad  to  be  obliged  to  resign  oneself  just 
as  life  is  beginning,  to  live  only  upon  memories.  The  first 
love  should  always  remain  sacred.  Don't  you  think  so? 

TERESA.  The  first  love? 

ENRIQUE.  Were  you  never  in  love? 

TERESA.  Enrique! 

ENRIQUE.  Now  don't  tell  me  that  your  husband  was  your 
first  love.  I  don't  believe  that  he  was  the  second,  either, 
although  I  don't  suppose  you  have  loved  more  than  once. 

TERESA.  Enrique! 

ENRIQUE.  Your  story  is  the  same  as  Nativity's;    that  is 


ACT  H        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  173 

the  reason  you  are  so  much  interested  in  her.  You  too  were 
saved  from  a  shipwreck.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  some  day 
how  you  ever  came  to  marry  your  husband.  There  must  be 
some  memory  in  your  life.  The  first  love  ought  always  to 
be  held  sacred. 

TERESA.  Ah !  That  is  what  you  think.  After  a  few  years, 
I  shall  want  you  to  tell  me  whether  it  is  not  the  one  that  is 
most  easily  forgotten;  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  When  I 
was  old  enough  to  have  my  first  love,  our  life  at  home  was 
one  long  series  of  misfortunes.  Nobody  even  suggested  love 
to  me.  I  was  not  a  good  match  for  men  of  my  own  class; 
I  was  too  far  above  the  others — I  was  a  lady  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances. I  did  not  attract  my  equals,  and  the  rest  were 
ashamed  to  offer  to  share  their  poverty  with  me.  And  to 
tell  the  truth,  what  with  being  too  calculating  or  too  timid, 
they  scarcely  inspired  love.  So  the  first  love,  which  you 
say  should  remain  sacred,  never  existed  for  me.  I  can  never 
have  that  memory,  and  if  I  have  never  had  that  memory, 
much  less  can  I  ever  have  hope. 

ENRIQUE.  Hope !  I  have  no  hope,  and  yet  I  am  young — • 
just  like  you. 

TERESA.  Like  me?     You  are  a  child. 

ENRIQUE.  I  am  an  old  man.  Life  is  nothing  but  a  memory 
to  me. 

TERESA.  You  amuse  me.  I  told  you  that  I  was  going  to 
ask  you  about  that  memory  within  a  few  years — a  very  few 
years— when  there  are  other  flowers  in  the  garden,  which  are 
not  these  flowers,  but  just  like  them,  other  white  and  blue 
butterflies  which  are  like  these — but  not  the  same. 

ENRIQUE.  But  I. . .  .1  will  be  the  same. 

TERESA.  Yes,  you  and  the  garden.  I  know,  but  other 
flowers  will  have  bloomed  in  your  heart,  other  butterflies 
have  fluttered  through  your  brain. 


174  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD        ACT  n 

ENRIQUE.  Butterflies  ?  No — look,  look  !  It  is  a  bee  which 
is  hovering  above  our  heads.  A  bad  sign ! 

TERESA.  Are  you  superstitious?  No,  it  is  not  a  bad  sign 
when  it  is  out-of-doors;  it  is  only  bad  when  it  comes  into  the 
room  and  buzzes  about  our  ears.  It  is  not  a  bad  sign  here 
at  all.  I  never  saw  so  many  white  and  blue  butterflies. 

ENRIQUE.  White  butterflies  bring  good  news.  Are  you 
expecting  any  ? 

TERESA.  I  ?  From  whom  ?  Where  would  it  come  from  ? 
Oh,  yes !  I  am  expecting  a  letter.  A  letter .... 

ENRIQUE.  From  whom  ? 

TERESA.  From  my  children — no,  my  little  sisters,  the 
little  girls.  I  sent  them  a  letter  to  the  school  which  must 
have  made  them  happy.  Poor  dears,  I  know  how  they  feel. 
People  always  tell  children  stories  about  stepmothers  which 
are  horrible !  I  suppose  some  one  has  told  them  that  now 
they  have  a  stepmother  so  as  to  make  them  uncomfortable. 
They  wrote  such  a  doleful  letter  to  their  father,  but  I  sat 
down  at  once  and  wrote  the  dearest  reply — I  put  all  my 
heart  into  it — and  now  I  am  expecting  them  to  send  me  lots 
of  kisses,  and  call  me  dear  mamma,  their  own  dear  mamma. 
Now,  see  if  they  don't.  I  am  sure  it  will  come  to-day;  I  see 
so  many  white  butterflies. 

ENRIQUE.  What  do  blue  butterflies  bring? 

TERESA.  We  used  to  think,  when  I  was  a  child  at  school, 
that  they  were  messengers  from  the  dead  who  loved  us  in 
this  life  and  were  in  heaven — that  they  came  from  the  souls 
of  the  blest.  In  cemeteries  you  always  find  clouds  of  blue 
butterflies. 

ENRIQUE.  If  that  is  true,  when  you  come  here  again — 
after  a  little  while,  a  very  little  while — you  will  see  clouds 
of  blue  butterflies. 

TERESA.  Ha,  ha !     You  are  not  thinking  of  dying,  cousin  ? 


Acrn        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  175 

ENRIQUE.  Don't  laugh  at  me.  You  think  that  I  am  only 
a  boy.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  have  no  feeling,  that  my  life 
is  not  sad  ?  I  know  what  it  is  to  love,  although  I  may  not 
be  loved  in  return. 

TERESA.  I  see;  the  first  love  which  must  always  remain 
sacred.  Who  is  she  ?  Who  is  she  ?  Are  you  afraid  to  tell 
me? 

ENRIQUE.  Don't  laugh  at  me. 

TERESA.  Laugh  at  you  ?  Never !  I  never  laugh  when 
others  are  unhappy.  But  you  will  forget,  I  promise  you. 

ENRIQUE.  How  do  you  know  that  I  will  forget? 

TERESA.  The  first?  Yes,  Enrique,  you  will  soon  learn 
how  little  it  signifies  in  your  life — a  memory  as  meaningless  as 
the  white  butterflies  which  bring  letters  from  absent  friends, 
or  the  blue  butterflies  which  are  messengers  of  the  blest. 
You  are  young  yet,  but  you  will  learn.  The  first  love  ?  Of 
course  you  will  forget ! 

ENRIQUE.  I  wish  you  had  felt  it;  then  -we  should  see  if 
you  did  not  remember  forever. 

TERESA.  Do  you  mean  the  first  love?  There  is  a  better 
love  than  the  first,  Enrique,  the  love  that  we  never  forget — 
it  is  the  last ! 

ENRIQUE.  Teresa! 

TERESA.  No !  Look  out !  Drive  him  away !  Don't  you 
see  ? — the  bee  buzzing  again  in  my  ear.  Drive  it  away ! 

ENRIQUE.  The  bee !     Dona  Esperanza  and  Assumption  in 
the  garden ....     A  bad  sign  !     And  a  bad  time  ! 
DONA  ESPERANZA  and  ASSUMPTION  enter. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  A  pleasant  afternoon,  Teresita.  Adios, 
Enrique. 

TERESA.  A  very  pleasant  afternoon. 

ENRIQUE.  Ladies .... 

ASSUMPTION.  I  suppose  the  Marchioness  is  taking  a  siesta  ? 


170 

TERESA.  Yes.     We  are  expecting  her  at  any  moment. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  We  came  early  so  as  to  have  an  op- 
portunity to  see  your  aunt  before  the  meeting  of  the  Junta, 
and  decide  who  is  to  have  charge  of  the  Charity  Table  dur- 
ing the  novena  of  La  Buena  Esperanza.  If  we  wait  until  the 
Junta  meets,  it  will  result  in  dissension.  Some  women  are 
never  content  unless  they  have  a  finger  in  everything,  not 
to  speak  of  the  liberty  they  take  of  asking  questions. 

ASSUMPTION.  It  is  only  natural  that  people  should  prefer 
the  hour  of  high  mass,  especially  when  there  are  young  girls 
in  the  family  who  wish  to  show  themselves  off  and  flirt  with 
the  men. 

DOXA  ESPERANZA.  That  is  precisely  the  reason  that  we 
are  anxious  to  have  one  of  our  friends  in  charge  of  the  table, 
such  as  the  Marchioness  or  yourself,  if  you  would  be  so  good 
as  to  assist  your  aunt. 

TERESA.  With  great  pleasure. 

ASSUMPTION.  The  point  is  to  appeal  to  the  men,  and 
ladies  such  as  your  aunt,  who  are  familiar  with  and  respected 
by  the  substantial  element — by  those  who  are  the  best  to 
do — accomplish  more  at  the  hour  of  service  when  there  are 
most  men  in  the  church.  The  boys  do  nothing  but  flit  in 
and  out  and  smile  at  the  girls.  The  most  that  they  ever 
give  is  a  couple  of  pesetas — poor  things ! — when  they  are 
forced  into  a  corner,  and  then  you  have  to  hold  them  up. 
Probably  one  of  them  will  turn  out  to  be  counterfeit. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Last  year  we  foolishly  assigned  the 
service  to  Don  Casimiro's  family.  Apart  from  the  scandal 
they  created  by  appearing  in  costumes  which  would  have 
attracted  attention  at  a  bull-fight,  before  they  were  done 
they  cost  us  over  two  hundred  reals. 

ASSUMPTION.  Not  to  mention  the  fact  that  Father  Michael 
selected  that  day  to  denounce  in  his  sermon  women  who 


ACTU        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  177 

painted,  and  the  congregation  all  turned  and  stared  at  them, 
so  that  they  were  offended,  and  said  that  he  had  no  business 
to  notice  such  things  in  the  pulpit.  Poor  Father  Michael, 
as  he  told  us  later,  never  dreamed  that  there  were  any  women 
who  painted  in  the  village,  which  was  the  reason  he  chose 
the  subject  for  his  sermon,  so  as  not  to  give  offense. 

[^4  long  pause. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  What  time  is  it  ?  We  must  not  be  too 
late  for  the  Junta. 

ENRIQUE.  Shall  I  tell  mamma  that  you  are  here? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  No,  no;  don't  disturb  yourself.  We 
can  wait.  [To  TERESA]  I  am  glad  to  find  an  opportunity, 
however,  of  talking  with  you.  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  which  I  should  not  like  to  say  before  your  aunt. 

TERESA.  Something  to  tell  me? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Of  course  you  know  how  fond  I  am 
of  you.  Whatever  I  say,  you  will  understand  is  dictated 
only  by  the  kindliest  motives. 

TERESA.  Surely.  Can  I  have  done  anything  wrong  with- 
out thinking,  without  my  aunt  having  noticed  it?  I  am 
certain  that  she  would  have  spoken  of  it. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Your  aunt?  In  confidence,  my  dear, 
your  aunt  was  the  one  who  asked  us  to  speak  to  you. 

TERESA.  I  am  sorry  that  she  has  so  little  confidence  in  me. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Whatever  you  do,  don't  let  her  know 
that  we  have  said  anything.  Your  aunt  is  afraid  that  she 
has  said  too  much  already — she  does  not  wish  to  annoy  you 
— and  the  very  first  tiling  that  she  made  us  promise  was 
never  to  let  you  know  that  she  had  said  anything.  How- 
ever, I  ani  not  good  at  deceit;  I  feel  that  my  face  gives  me 
away. 

TERESA.  But  what  have  I  done?  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
plainly. 


178  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD        ACT  n 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  You  are  very  young,  Teresa.  Of  course 
you  have  been  brought  up  in  the  modern  mode;  you  do  not 
attach  the  same  importance  as  we  do  to  a  great  many  things 
— which  no  doubt  proves  your  good  intentions.  But  the 
world,  my  dear,  cannot  judge  by  intentions.  It  judges  by 
the  evidence,  by  what  it  sees.  . .  . 

TERESA.  But  what  have  I  done? 

ASSUMPTION.  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  talk  about  your  bathing  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. No  lady  bathes  at  that  hour.  It  seems  conspicuous. 

TERESA.  I  like  to  swim  when  the  beach  is  not  crowded 
and  I  can  have  plenty  of  room.  Bathing  is  an  exercise  to 
me;  my  father  brought  me  up  to  it.  As  a  child,  I  was  very 
timid  about  the  water,  but  my  father  was  a  man  who  could 
never  tolerate  fear. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Your  father's  tastes  were  rather  exotic. 
There  are  many  things  of  which  women  should  cultivate  a 
wholesome  fear.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  at  least  one-half  of 
virtue  is  fear. 

ENRIQUE.  Be  careful !  After  this,  you  had  better  bathe 
at  eleven,  and  hold  tight  fast  to  the  life-line;  then  whenever 
a  wave  comes,  give  a  piercing  shriek  and  jump  up  and  down 
— which  is  impeccable.  There  is  little  to  see  on  the  beach 
at  eleven,  but  there  is  plenty  to  hear. 

ASSUMPTION.  I  am  surprised  at  Enrique;  he  appears  to 
have  forgotten  himself.  It  is  fortunate  that  your  mother 
is  not  here. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  We  are  advising  Teresa  for  her  own 
good.  Of  course,  if  she  fails  to  appreciate  it.  ... 

TERESA.  No,  no,  I  do  fully. 

ASSUMPTION.  I  also  take  exception  to  the  bathing-suit. 

TERESA.  Don't  you  think  it  is  becoming? 

ASSUMPTION.  I  know  it  is  what  they  are  wearing  at  San 


ACT  n        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  179 

Sebastian  and  other  fashionable  beaches;  but  here  no  one 
would  be  so  bold  as  to  show  herself  in  it. 

TERESA.  What  do  you  wear  here? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Haven't  you  noticed?  A  tunic  gath- 
thered  loosely  around  the  neck,  which  reaches  all  the  way 
down  to  the  ground. 

ASSUMPTION.  Preferably  trailing. 

TERESA.  Yes,  but  if  the  wind  comes  up .... 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  My  dear,  you  wear  bloomers,  long 
bloomers,  which  envelop  the  figure  the  same  as  a  skirt. 

TERESA.  Then  how  am  I  ever  going  to  swim? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  We  do  not  approve  of  swimming. 
Bathing  is  bathing;  exercise  is  not  for  women.  I  heard  yes- 
terday that  you  swam  out  as  far  as  the  float,  and  sat  down 
there  to  rest  while  you  talked  with  the  life-preserver,  who 
was  a  man. 

TERESA.  An  old  man,  I  noticed. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  But  all  the  same  he  was  a  man. 

ASSUMPTION.  Yes  !    A  man ! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Remember  what  you  had  on.  You 
think  that  nobody  looks,  but  only  half  an  hour  ago  we  heard 
that  Don  Rosendo  was  up  on  the  roof  of  his  house  with  a 
telescope. 

ASSUMPTION.  Nothing  escapes  him.  He  has  happened  on 
a  number  of  things  in  the  village. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  As  Enrique  can  testify. 

ENRIQUE.  I? 

ASSUMPTION.  Yes,  one  day  when  the  maid  was  hanging 
clothes  on  the  roof  of  this  house,  and  you  were  not  far  away. 

ENRIQUE.  I?  I?  Does  Don  Rosendo  say  that  I — 
Tell  him  from  me  to  put  armor  on  his  telescope.  To  the 
devil  with  Don  Rosendo  and  his  telescope ! 

TERESA.  No  doubt  he  finds  it  amusing. 


180          THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD       ACT  u 

ENRIQUE.  Mamma  is  awake.  She  is  coining  into  the 
garden. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Teresita,  promise  us  not  to  say  one 
word  to  your  aunt. 

TERESA.  No,  no !     I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 

ENRIQUE.  I  should  think  you  were.  [Aside]  Who  ever 
heard  of  such  an  outrage?  I  hope  you  don't  believe  that 
story  about  the  roof? 

The  MARQUIS  and  MARCHIONESS  enter. 

MARCHIONESS.  Have  you  been  waiting  long  ?  Why  didn't 
you  let  me  know? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  It  was  not  necessary.  We  had  plenty 
of  time.  We  knew  that  you  were  resting.  How  do  you  like 
our  town,  my  dear  Marquis  ? 

MARQUIS.  I  am  charmed  with  my  summer.  How  quiet 
it  is !  I  am  astonished  that  we  do  not  see  more  visitors. 

MARCHIONESS.  I  hope  we  never  shall.  They  would  dissi- 
pate the  charm.  We  live  here  like  one  big  family.  We  are 
left  to  ourselves,  as  it  were. 

ENRIQUE.  [Aside  to  TERESA]  Which  explains  why  it  is  so 
tiresome. 

TERESA.  [Idem]  You  will  be  set  down  as  an  anarchist  if 
they  hear  you. 

ENRIQUE.  [Idem]  You  can't  set  me  down. 

MARCHIONESS.  [Aside  to  ESPERANZA  and  ASSUMPTION] 
Did  you  speak  to  Teresita? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Yes,  although  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
she  did  not  take  it  in  good  part.  I  could  see  it  in  her  manner. 

MARCHIONESS.  She  is  her  father  over  again;  I  am  more 
certain  of  it  every  day. 

ASSUMPTION.  There  has  been  a  great  change  in  Enrique 
since  she  arrived. 

MARCHIONESS.  In  my  son  ?     What  do  you  mean  ? 


ACTH       THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  181 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Yes,  he  seems  more  active,  more  alert. 
Keep  your  eye  on  him.  It  is  well  for  a  mother  to  know. 

MARQUIS.  [To  TERESA]  Here  is  a  letter  from  the  children 
— no,  this  is  for  me.  Here  is  yours. 

TERESA.  Quick,  quick !  I  am  so  happy !  Didn't  I  tell 
you  ?  Look,  Enrique ! 

ENRIQUE.  Is  it  the  letter  you  were  expecting  ? 

TERESA.  Yes. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  [To  the  MARCHIONESS]  We  came  to  ap- 
portion the  hours  so  as  to  avoid  any  discussion.  The  other 
ladies  will  be  satisfied  with  what  you  decide. 

MARCHIONESS.  Let  us  retire  into  the  dining-room  and  dis- 
pose of  everything.  Enrique,  bring  us  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 

ENRIQUE.  At  once. 

Goes  out,  returning  a  moment  later  with  the  materials 
desired  by  the  MARCHIONESS. 

MARCHIONESS.  We  can  write  down  our  impressions  as  we 
go  along. 

ASSUMPTION.  I  suppose  we  must  invite  the  wife  of  that 
impossible  creature  who  has  returned  from  America.  He  has 
made  a  handsome  subscription. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  not  heard 
anything  against  her  for  some  time.  I  was  never  able  to 
believe  one-half  of  what  I  did  hear,  I  can  say  with  a  clear 
conscience. 

MARCHIONESS.  Although  half  was  sufficient.  However,  if 
she  has  found  time  to  repent. . . . 

DONA  ESPERANZA,  ASSUMPTION,  and  the  MARCHIONESS 
withdraw,  still  conversing.    ENRIQUE  follows  them. 

MARQUIS.  How  do  you  like  the  letter  ?  I  see  nothing  ob- 
jectionable in  it.  The  tone  is  respectful  and  obedient.  The 
children  have  been  thoroughly  well  trained. 


182  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  n 

TERESA.  Yes .... 

MARQUIS.  It  is  exactly  what  I  told  them  to  say. 

TERESA.  Oh!  You  did?  It  was  you,  then?  You  were 
the  one  who  told  them  ?  But  my  letter .... 

MARQUIS.  Your  letter?  Oh!  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell 
you,  Teresa.  When  you  read  me  that  letter,  I  thought  it 
best  not  to  say  anything.  I  could  see  that  you  were  nervous 
and  excited.  I  felt  at  once  that  it  was  improper;  the  letter 
was — how  shall  I  put  it? — sentimental,  overdone.  It  would 
have  shocked  the  children.  It  was  like  the  letter  of  another 
child.  In  other  words,  although  I  said  nothing,  I  decided  it 
was  better  not  to  send  it.  You  can  sit  down  now  and  write 
more  calmly,  when  your  nerves  are  under  better  control. 
Of  course,  I  want  you  to  be  affectionate,  but  try  to  make 
them  respect  you.  Avoid  overeffusiveness  and  be  natural. 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  love  them  as  if  they  were  your  own  chil- 
dren; that  would  be  preposterous.  But  I  should  like  to 
have  them  respect  you;  endeavor  to  make  yourself  respected. 
You  will  find  that  I  am  perfectly  fair;  I  am  only  reasonable. 
I  expect  no  impossibilities. 

TERESA.  No,  I  see  that  you  don't.  You  expect  no  impos- 
sibilities. But  that  letter,  whatever  it  may  have  been,  was 
written  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred to  have  them  read  it.  But  now. ...  I  don't  think 
you  have  done  right — and  I  might  as  well  tell  you  plainly — 
either  by  me  or  by  the  children.  It  was  not  the  right  tiling 
to  do. 

MARQUIS.  Come,  come !  Let  us  not  have  another  attack 
of  nerves. 

TERESA.  Nerves,  nerves !  I  haven't  any  time  to  have 
nerves !  I  scarcely  recognize  myself  any  more.  Life  is  too 
strong  for  us;  sooner  or  later  we  are  all  cowed  and  thoroughly 
tamed,  peeves !  When  I  was  a  child,  when  I  always  had 


ACT  ii        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  183 

my  own  way,  when  my  parents  were  alive  to  spoil  me  and  the 
whole  world  revolved  about  what  I  wanted  to  do  next,  then 
I  did  have  nerves  !  But  now  I  haven't  any.  I  keep  still;  I 
submit  to  everything. 

MARQUIS.  What  are  you  talking  about? 

TERESA.  Nothing,  nothing !  I  say  nothing.  I  always 
suspected  it,  but  now  I  know  that  it  is  true.  To  be  happy, 
to  get  on  in  the  world,  we  must  pretend,  we  must  keep  still. 
Don't  trouble  yourself;  I  shall  never  speak  my  mind  to 
you  again.  You  will  see  how  silent  I  can  become,  and 
you  will  have  cause  to  regret  my  silence. 

MARQUIS.  We  will  take  that  up  when  you  have  regained 
control  of  yourself.  For  the  present  it  will  be  sufficient  if 
you  give  no  more  exhibitions  before  your  aunt. 

TERESA.  No;  never.  I  told  you  that  I  had  learned  to 
keep  still. 

MARQUIS.  It  would  not  hurt  you,  either,  to  begin  by  being 
sensible. 

TERESA.  Ah! 

The  MARQUIS  retires,  leaving  TERESA  in  tears,  seated. 
DON  HELIODORO  enters  in  a  high  state  of  satisfaction. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  have  found  the  talisman !  I  have 
found  the  talisman!  Eh?  What  is  the  matter?  Have 
you  been  crying? 

TERESA.  No,  no;  it  was  nothing....  Did  you  say  a 
talisman?  But  uncle,  what  have  you  been  doing?  Where 
have  you  been  ? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Never  mind  me;  no  wonder.  I  did  not 
care  to  be  seen  on  the  street  with  Jesus,  so  we  went  in  and 
sat  down  somewhere — it  might  have  been  a  pastry  shop;  I 
can't  say.  But  I  feel  better  now.  Aha!  I  am  going  to 
give  them  a  surprise — and  it  is  time.  I  am  going  to  give 
them  a  shock.  Aha,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  may  be 


184  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD        ACT  n 

dignified  and  respectable,  but  I  have  the  best  of  you  now ! 
I  have  found  a  talisman ! 

TERESA.  But,  uncle,  don't  be  silly.     What  talisman? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Look!  [Exhibiting  a  wallet  filled  -with 
bank-notes}  Money !  Money !  And  there  is  no  end  to  it. 
I  gave  Jesus  as  much.  They  are  going  to  sail  together,  they 
are  going  to  be  happy,  and  the  ladies  will  have  a  spasm. 
Some  one  is  going  to  burst  before  she  hears  the  last  of  it — 
I  won't  tell  you  who. 

TERESA.  Yes,  but  explain;  tell  me  all  about  it.  Some- 
thing is  the  matter  with  you,  uncle. 

DON  HELIODORO.  With  me?  Never!  I  feel  positively 
fit.  Call  Nativity;  tell  her  to  come  at  once.  Jesus  is  wait- 
ing for  us,  and  I  will  lead  her  to  him  myself. 

TERESA.  But,  uncle,  it  will  never  do;  it  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. 

DON  HELIODORO.  It  is,  is  it  ?  The  details  are  all  arranged. 
All  that  remains  is  to  convince  Nativity. 

TERESA.  Impossible  !  She  will  never  consent.  If  you  are 
planning  an  elopement,  such  as  people  read  about  in  novels, 
I  tell  you  it  is  wrong,  it  is  outrageous.  I  will  be  the  first 
person  to  prevent  it. 

DON  HELIODORO.  You?  Aha!  If  my  nephew  Enrique 
were  not  a  mere  infant  in  arms,  I  would  pack  you  off,  too, 
while  I  was  about  it. 

TERESA.  Uncle!    What? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Don't  imagine  that  I  haven't  noticed 
the  effect  that  you  have  on  Enrique.  He  is  unfolding  his 
petals  like  a  rose. 

TERESA.  For  shame ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  It  reminds  me  of  Cherubino's  love  for 
the  countess,  who  was  his  godmother.  I  came  upon  some 


ACT  ii        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  185 

of  his  verses.  They  were  bad,  of  course — which  was  natural 
— but  they  breathe  passion.  Oh ! 

"In  the  midnight  of  life  when  dark  shadows  had  bound  me, 
Like  a  ray  of  the  sun  you  burst  on  my  view". . . . 

Then  he  describes  some  horrible  apparitions,  which  I  take  to 
be  Dona  Esperanza,  Dona  Assumption,  and  Don  Francisquito, 
and  then  you  appear,  like  a  celestial  shape,  all  fragrance  and 
light.... 

TERESA.  Uncle,  you  are  making  this  up. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  making  it  up,  making  it  up,  am  I  ? 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  not  been  conscious  of  it 
from  the  beginning?  Women  are  always  the  first  to  notice 
these  things  themselves. 

TERESA.  I  don't  intend  to  argue  with  you.  But  tell  me 
what  is  more  important.  Did  you  really  see  Jesus  ?  Did 
you  overtake  him? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Everything  in  due  season.  When  I  left 
the  house  I  stopped  in  at  the  Club  to  see  if  there  were  any 
letters  for  me,  and — wonder  of  wonders ! — there  was  a  letter 
from  an  old  friend  of  mine,  a  happy  soul  like  myself,  whom 
I  had  lent  money  one  night  when  he  was  in  need  of  it — I  say 
lent,  because  it  describes  the  transaction  as  well  as  anything 
else.  However,  there  are  times  when  we  reap  the  whirlwind. 
To-day  he  writes  me  saying:  "I  hear  that  you  are  hi  need  of 
money,  while  I  have  more  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  you  had  always  been  generous."  And 
he  encloses  a  draft.  Think  of  that !  I  ran  to  Zurita's — 
naturally  the  bad  one's;  he  always  has  plenty  of  money — 
and  he  cashed  the  draft!  And  with  the  talisman  in  my 
pocket,  I  set  sail  in  search  of  Jesus.  I  found  Jesus,  I  con- 
ferred with  him,  and  we  agreed  upon  a  plan.  Ah !  By  the 
way,  I  also  saw  Martin,  and  he  assured  me  that  he  was  only 


186  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD        ACT  H 

marrying  out  of  gratitude,  to  please  the  ladies,  unhappy 
man! — and  because  he  thought  it  might  do  him  good.  So 
when  she  says  that  she  doesn't  love  him,  he  is  even  with  her 
already.  He  will  raise  no  objections;  he  has  the  fear  of 
Jesus  in  his  heart.  Now  you  know  the  whole  story.  Run 
and  tell  Nativity — although  it  is  probable  that  she  knows. 
Jesus  will  have  found  a  way.  When  I  left  him  he  was  writ- 
ing a  letter,  and  such  a  letter !  It  was  as  bad  as  Enrique's 
verses,  but  it  burned  like  fire.  Here  comes  Nativity.  What 
did  I  tell  you  ? .  .  .  .  She  knows  ! 
NATIVITY  enters. 

NATIVITY.  Senorita,  help  me,  save  me!  I  know  you  are 
good ! 

TERESA.  But  you  must  not  take  it  so  hard.  What  is  the 
matter  ? 

NATIVITY.  You  could  never  guess;  I  have  a  letter  from 
Jesus.  He  says  that  unless  I  run  away  with  him  to-day — 
this  very  minute — I  will  be  responsible  for  the  loss  of  his 
soul.  He  says,  too — to  show  you  how  crazy  he  is — that  he 
has  plenty  of  money.  How  could  he  honorably  have  plenty 
of  money  ?  It  is  impossible !  i  don't  want  to  tell  the 
Senora  Marchioness,  because  she  would  make  an  example 
of  him,  but  I  know  it  is  impossible.  Save  me,  senorita ! 

TERESA.  Don't  cry;  don't  be  afraid ! 

DON  HELIODORO.  You  are  misjudging  Jesus.  I  was  present 
when  he  wrote  that  letter;  he  did  it  by  my  advice.  And  I 
gave  him  the  money.  It  will  keep  him  until  he  can  get  work, 
and  you  can  establish  yourselves. 

NATIVITY.  You  gave  it  to  him? 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  I.  That  is  the  way  I  do;  I  am 
crazy  myself,  and  I  wish  to  see  you  both  happy  in  your  love. 
I  know  you  love  Jesus,  and  he  loves  you,  which  is  right  and 
proper,  and  as  it  should  be.  Martin  has  confessed  that  he 


ACT  ii        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  187 

feels  just  as  you  do  about  it.  The  disappointment  will  not 
kill  him. 

NATIVITY.  But,  Don  Heliodoro 

DON  HELIODORO.  Mark  my  words.  Let  us  be  frank  now 
about  your  feelings,  about  what  you  would  really  like  to  do. 
Suppose  you  were  certain  that  if  you  confessed  you  loved 
Jesus,  that  if  you  declared  you  would  never  marry  any  one 
else,  that  nothing  would  happen;  suppose  that  the  ladies 
should  not  be  angry,  nor  take  it  as  ingratitude,  nor  with- 
draw their  support;  suppose  that  they  should  pardon  Jesus 
in  their  hearts,  and  you  both  should  live  happily  ever  after- 
ward— what  would  you  say? 

NATIVITY.  Yes,  but  that  would  be  different.  . . . 

DON  HELIODORO.  Because  you  do  love  Jesus? 

NATIVITY.  I  shouldn't  be  so  unhappy  if  I  didn't  love  him. 

DON  HELIODORO.  You  would  rather  marry  him  than  the 
other  fellow  ? 

NATIVITY.  Si,  senor;  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it  to  you. 

TERESA.  In  that  case. . . . 

DON  HELIODORO.  In  that  case,  speak  out  freely. 

TERESA.  But  do  you  honestly  believe  that  if  Nativity 
should  confess .... 

DON  HELIODORO.  Confess  nothing.  Words  are  worse  than 
useless.  I  know  these  people.  First,  they  would  be  angry; 
afterward,  when  they  became  convinced  that  it  was  of  no 
effect,  they  would  pretend  to  be  reconciled;  they  would  be 
hypocritically  calm,  smooth,  and  affectionate,  and,  with 
every  art  at  their  command,  scheme  to  place  Jesus  in  a  false 
position,  in  which  he  would  appear  like  a  scoundrel.  They 
would  take  advantage  of  every  slip,  of  every  moment  of 
irresolution,  in  order  to  make  you  believe  it — oh !  I  know 
them — and  in  the  end  they  would  succeed.  That  is  pre- 
cisely what  I  do  not  intend  to  have.  No,  the  more  sea  and 


188  THE   EVIL   DOERS   OF   GOOD        ACT  11 

land  between  you  the  better.  Then  you  will  remain  in 
blissful  ignorance  of  their  horror,  their  consternation,  and 
their  cries.  What  is  neither  seen  nor  heard  is  as  if  it  did 
not  exist.  Come,  Nativity,  do  not  hesitate;  it  is  the  best, 
the  only  way.  Otherwise  you  need  not  count  upon  my  pro- 
tection, which  is  at  least  as  generous  as  that  of  any  one  else, 
and  a  great  deal  more  disinterested. 

NATIVITY.  Senorita,  do  you  hear  what  he  says?  I  can 
never  run  away  like  this. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Like  this,  like  this?  You  can  get  mar- 
ried in  the  first  port  of  call,  or,  if  necessary,  on  the  ship. 
As  an  emergency,  seasickness  yields  nothing  to  death.  Or 
you  needn't  get  married.  You  would  be  less  hampered  in 
that  case  should  there  be  cause  of  regret. 

TERESA.  Don't  be  sacrilegious,  uncle. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Nonsense !  You  know  my  views.  Well, 
how  is  it?  Do  you  hesitate? 

TERESA.  This  cannot  go  on  forever.  Speak  out;  don't  be 
afraid. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Oh,  yes!  I  understand;  I  told  you  how 
it  would  be.  Now,  listen  to  me,  Nativity — and  you,  too.  I 
don't  purpose  to  give  you  any  advice.  She  is  the  one  who 
is  going  to  do  it — another  woman  like  yourself.  You  love 
the  senorita,  do  you  not? 

NATIVITY.  Oh,  si,  sefiorl    I  do. 

DON  HELIODORO.  And  you  believe  that  she  is  virtuous  and 
good,  and  incapable  of  giving  bad  advice? 

NATIVITY.  Oh,  no,  seftor! 

DON  HELIODORO.  Suppose  she  should  say  to  you:  "I 
want  you  to  go  with  the  man  whom  you  love;  do  it  for  me." 
Well,  answer  her. 

NATIVITY.  Since  the  senorita  says  so .... 

TERESA.  I? 


ACTH        THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  189 

DON  HELIODORO.  Answer  her. 

NATIVITY.  If  the  senorita  should  say  so. ... 

DON  HELIODORO.  It  is  your  turn  now,  don't  you  see? 
Weigh  it  carefully;  balance  it  in  your  conscience.  The  fate 
of  this  girl  depends  upon  you.  They  married  you  precisely 
as  they  purpose  to  do  her;  her  life  will  be  what  yours  is. 
She  will  be  bound  forever  to  a  man  who  does  not  love  her, 
with  whom  she  can  have  no  true  companionship;  they  can 
never  be  one.  They  will  remain  two  persons,  who  measure 
and  weigh  their  words  eternally  so  as  to  conceal  their  true 
thoughts,  not  to  reveal  them.  I  am  serious  now,  intensely 
serious — sober,  if  you  like.  What  does  your  heart  say? 
What  does  your  conscience? 

TERESA.  You  ask  me  that  question  in  a  terrible  crisis  of 
my  life,  when  I  see  clearly  for  the  first  time  what  my  future 
must  be — devoid  of  love,  as  you  say,  of  true  companionship, 
lived  with  a  man  into  whose  thoughts  I  can  never  enter; 
we  can  never  be  one.  My  heart  would  not  hesitate,  but  the 
responsibility  of  determining  the  life  of  another  is  too  grave. 
If  I  should  be  wrong,  if  it  should  be  a  mistake — I  cannot 
advise  you;  I  cannot  pronounce  the  word.  Your  own  heart 
must  decide. 

DON  HELIODORO.  But  what  would  yours  do  ?  The  truth, 
now,  by  all  that  is  holy,  yes,  by  the  living  truth  itself,  which 
is  the  holiest  thing  in  our  lives.  The  one  duty  of  our  lives 
is  to  follow  the  truth  all  our  lives,  lead  where  it  will  lead. 

TERESA.  You  are  right.  It  may  mean  poverty  and  it 
may  mean  suffering,  but  you  are  called  by  your  love.  You 
may  be  happy  for  only  one  day,  but  you  will  be  happier 
then  than  those  of  us  who  have  never  been  happy,  who  can- 
not even  hope  to  be  happy  in  our  lives. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Do  you  hear? 

NATIVITY.  Senorita! 


190  THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  u 

TERESA.  Do  you  love  him  dearly? 

NATIVITY.  Yes,  seflorita;  I  love  him,  and  my  heart  goes 
out  to  him,  because  I  know  that  he  can  never  be  good  unless 
it  is  with  me.  If  he  is  alone  in  the  world,  he  will  come  to 
some  bad  end,  and  my  heart  will  always  bear  the  remorse. 

TERESA.  It  is  the  truth.  Then  go  with  him,  and  do  not 
hesitate;  be  happy  in  your  lives.  Together  you  were  borne 
in  from  the  sea,  and  the  sea  shall  carry  you  away. 

NATIVITY.  Senorita. . .  .do  you  mean?. . . .  Ah!  I  don't 
believe  it  can  be  wrong !  I  cry  for  joy ! 

DON  HELJODORO.  Come,  come  with  me!  You  will  need 
a  few  things.  We  can  go  out  through  the  carriage-house  and 
no  one  will  ever  know. 

NATIVITY.  Senorita,  nobody  every  spoke  like  this  to  me 
before. 

DON  HELIODORO.  I  said  a  few  things  myself.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  me.  . . . 

NATIVITY.  I  know  you  are  a  good  man. 

DON  HELIODORO.  In  my  own  way,  perhaps,  although  it 
may  not  be  the  best.  I  know  that  you  love  each  other; 
I  cannot  tell  whether  you  will  be  happy,  but  when  we  under- 
take to  determine  the  future,  we  are  encroaching  upon  God's 
preserve.  Come  with  me. 

NATIVITY.  Senorita,  tell  them  that  I  am  not  ungrateful, 
that  I  am  not  a  bad  woman. 

TERESA.  No,  my  poor  girl.  Embrace  me  before  you  go 
— for  part  of  my  soul  goes  with  you. 

DON  HELIODORO  takes  NATIVITY  by  tJie  hand  and  leads 
her  away,  leaving  TERESA  in  tears,  alone.  She  gazes 
after  them  as  they  disappear.  A  brief  pause.  Then 
ENRIQUE  enters. 

ENRIQUE.  Teresa,  Teresa !    Is  Uncle  Heliodoro  back  yet  ? 


ACTII       THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD  191 

TERESA.  Yes,  but  don't  talk  to  me.  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  Where  are  your  mother  and  the  other  ladies? 

ENRIQUE.  Holding  a  grand  council.  They  have  La  Re- 
pelona. 

TERESA.  Ah !  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  She  will  keep  them 
talking. 

ENRIQUE.  No,  she  has  repented.  She  says  that  she  has 
left  her  man,  that  she  is  not  willing  to  live  in  sin  any  longer, 
and  begs  them  to  help  her,  and  to  get  her  some  work.  It  is 
the  old  story,  but  it  produces  results. 

TERESA.  Poor  woman ! 

ENRIQUE.  Tell  me,  what  did  Uncle  Heliodoro  have  to  say  ? 
Has  he  been  with  Jesus  ? 

TERESA.  Yes,  he  has.  You  will  hear  later.  ...  I  don't 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  me;  I  am  so  depressed.  Have 
I  done  right,  have  I  done  wrong? 

ENRIQUE.  Have  you  done  wrong?     What  do  you  mean? 

TERESA.  [Leading  him  to  the  rear}  Look,  look ! 

ENRIQUE.  Nativity,  Uncle  Heliodoro ....  Where  are  they 
going  ? 

TERESA.  Hush ! . . . .  The  ladies  !  Pretend  not  to  see.  I 
don't  know  what  I  am  saying.  It  may  not  be  too  late  yet. 
I  don't  know,  I  don't  know. . . . 

ENRIQUE.  But  you  don't  mean  ? . . . .     Not  really  ? . . . . 

TERESA.  Yes. 

ENRIQUE.  I  am  delighted !     I  am  sure  they  will  be  happy  ! 

TERESA.  Do  you  really  believe  that  it  is  possible  to  be 
happy  in  this  world? 

The  MARCHIONESS,  DONA  ESPERANZA,  ASSUMPTION, 
and  LA  REPELONA  enter. 

MARCHIONESS.  We  heard  what  you  said.  All  that  we  need 
is  to  be  satisfied  as  to  its  credibility. 

LA  REPELONA.  Ah,  Senora  Marchioness,  whose  image  I 


193          THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  H 

preserve  in  my  soul,  and  Dona  Esperanza's,  which  is  in  my 
heart,  and  her  dear  sister's,  if  it  can  ever  be  said  again  that 
I  have  gone  back  to  live  with  that  man,  and  it  is  true  what 
they  say,  then  you  will  know  that  I  deserve  to  live  with  him 
and  nothing  else,  and  be  reduced  to  what  I  am  now  by  that 
villain  and  worthless  vagabond,  ay,  and  drunken  sot  that 
he  is.  I  only  wish  you  could  see  the  wounds  on  my  body 
he  has  made,  and  you  would  know  that  I  live  in  martyrdom, 
so  that  if  I  was  a  saint  I  would  already  have  had  my  day 
in  the  calendar,  only  I  am  not  enough  of  a  saint;  but  there 
are  plenty  who  are  less  martyrs.  Yet  I  repent. . . . 

DONA  ESPEKANZA.  Persevere,  persevere,  my  woman,  in 
good  works. 

REPELONA.  I  always  persevere  so  long  as  you  stand  by, 
senora,  and  all  the  ladies.  I  don't  know  what  would  be- 
come of  me  if  it  wasn't  for  you.  I  will  be  as  steady  in  my 
work  again  as  I  was  before  I  met  him — in  an  evil  hour  for 
me !  Surely  I  lay  under  the  curse. 

MARCHIONESS.  Be  more  careful  hereafter,  and  avoid  all 
such  occasions.  God  be  with  you,  and  may  He  assist  you 
in  your  labors.  If  that  man  follows  you,  or  if  he  threatens 
you,  let  us  know  without  delay,  and  don't  attempt  to  tell 
us  that  lie  overcame  you  through  fear. 

REPELONA.  Oh,  no,  senora !  Let  him  dash  me  into  pieces 
and  drag  me  in  the  dust,  but  I  shall  never  look  at  him — I  shall 
never  look  at  his  face  again !  God  be  with  you,  ladies,  and 
may  He  repay  you  and  grant  that  you  live  as  many  years 
as  there  are  good  deeds  you  have  done  in  the  world,  and 
may  he  lend  me  the  strength  to  follow  and  kiss  the  ground 
where  you  set  your  feet. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  For  the  present,  that  will  be  sufficient. 

REPELONA.  You  are  all  so  good — so  kind  and  good ! 

[She  goes  out. 


ACT  ii       THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD          193 

MARCHIONESS.  What  do  you  think  of  this  conversion? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Sometimes  it  must  be  sincere.  What 
do  you  think,  Marchioness? 

MARCHIONESS.  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  I  believe  that 
the  Junta  will  approve  the  expenditure,  in  view  of  the 
urgency  of  the  relief. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Why  not?  Shall  we  go,  Marchioness 
— if  you  are  ready? 

MARCHIONESS.  At  once.  Enrique,  ask  Nativity  to  bring 
the  bundle  of  clothes  which  I  left  in  the  store-closet,  and  to 
follow  immediately. 

ENRIQUE.  Yes,  mamma. 

TERESA.  [Aside]  Don't  you  go. 

ENRIQUE.  Eh? 

MARCHIONESS.  We  are  waiting .... 

ENRIQUE.  Yes,  of  course. — What  was  that  ? 

TERESA.  No,  no;  go. . .  .but  delay  as  much  as  possible. 
[Discovering  MARTIN,  who  enters]  Never  mind;  it  is  too  late. 
It  makes  no  difference. 

MARTIN.  Have  I  permission  ?     May  I  come  in  ? 

MARCHIONESS.  Why,  Martin !  What  brings  you  here  at 
this  hour  ?  Is  there  something  you  wish  to  say  to  Nativity, 
or  do  we  allow  you  too  little  opportunity  to  talk?  She  will 
be  with  us  directly  and  then  you  may  see  her,  but  only  for 
a  moment. 

MARTIN.  Nativity?  No,  I  did  not  come  to  see  her,  and 
I  never  expect  to  see  her  again.  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see 
her! 

MARCHIONESS.  How? 

MARTIN.  No,  sefiora.  Nativity  and  Jesus  have  taken  ship, 
and  at  this  moment  they  are  sailing  away.  They  are  at  sea 
together,  transported. 

THE  MARCHIONESS,  DONA  ESPERANZA,  AND  ASSUMPTION. 


194  THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD        ACT  H 

Eh?     What  is   that?     Impossible!....     Nativity!     Nativ- 
ity !  [They  begin  calling  NATIVITY  upon  all  sides. 

MARCHIONESS.  Nativity !  Nativity !  [To  ENRIQUE]  Run 
and  find  her.  It  is  impossible,  because  she  was  just  here.  [To 
TERESA]  We  saw  her  with  you. 

TERESA.  Yes,  but  she  went  out. 

MARCHIONESS.  She  went  out  ?  [To  MARTIN]  But  how  do 
you  know? 

MARTIN.  I  know  because  I  know;   I  listened  to  Jesus. . . . 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  I  have  no  faith  in  that  man. 

MARCHIONESS.  He  is  too  horrible  for  words ! 

ASSUMPTION.  He  overpowered  her;  he  carried  her  away 
by  force. 

MARTIN.  No,  seiiora,  she  went  willingly.  They  loved 
each  other,  and  so  they  ran  away  for  fear  that  you  would 
not  permit  them  to  marry.  I  am  glad  it  happened  now, 
because  if  it  had  been  afterward .... 

MARCHIONESS.  But  how  could  they  run  away?  Where 
did  they  get  the  money? 

MARTIN.  They  had  plenty.     You  can  ask  Don  Heliodoro. 

MARCHIONESS.  My  brother? 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  It  might  be,  Marchioness. 

ASSUMPTION.  Your  brother  is  capable  of  anything. 

Meanwhile  DON  HELIODORO  enters  and  overhears  the 
closing  words  of  the  conversation. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  it  was  I !  I  am  the  man !  I  am 
proud  of  it,  and  I  don't  regret  it. 

MARCHIONESS.  You  may  well  be  proud. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  He  is  not  the  only  one  who  is  to  blame. 
What  ingratitude  !  What  ingratitude ! 

ASSUMPTION.  I  should  never  have  believed  it  of  the  girl. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  But  the  impudence  of  it!  To  run 
away,  to  elope! 


ACT  n        THE   EVIL  DOERS  OF   GOOD  195 

ASSUMPTION.  Her  punishment  will  come  later — we  can 
imagine  what  it  will  be. 

The  voices  of  CABRERA  and  LA  REPELONA  are  heard 
outside,  wrangling  with  a  pack  of  boys,  who  run  hoot- 
ing after  them  down  the  street. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  are  those  shouts? 

ASSUMPTION.  [At  the  rear}  I  can  scarcely  believe  my  eyes. 
No,  no,  don't  you  look,  Marchioness !  This  is  not  for  you. 

MARTIN.  [Hurrying  to  the  rear]  It  is  Cabrera  and  the  boys. 
They  are  hooting  him  as  usual. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  [Rushing  to  the  rear  also]  Cabrera, 
drunk  as  can  be,  and  that  woman  on  his  arm — embracing 
repentance  with  a  vengeance ! 

MARCHIONESS.  Enough !  Enough  !  I  don't  care  to  hear  ! 
I  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  business.  I  am  done  with 
your  Junta,  I  refuse  absolutely  to  interfere. 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  Yes,  this  surpasses  anything  I  ever 
heard  of. 

ASSUMPTION.  It  would  be  impossible  to  go  further.     Ah ! 
The  shouts  and  cries  die  away. 

MARCHIONESS.  What  can  you  expect  of  such  people? 
But  the  others,  the  others ....  She  was  such  a  nice  girl ! 
What  a  pity ! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  This  is  what  we  get  in  return  for  our 
charity. 

MARCHIONESS.  They  eat  our  bread .... 

ASSUMPTION.  They  owe  their  very  lives  to  our  mercy. 

MARCHIONESS.  [TV  DON  HELIODORO]  And  it  is  all  your 
fault! 

DONA  ESPERANZA.  This  is  the  result  of  preaching  your 
ideas.  Now  you  see  the  consequence. 

MARCHIONESS.  [To  TERESA]  And  you  knew  it !    It  was  a 


196          THE  EVIL  DOERS  OF  GOOD        ACT  n 

plot.  But  wait  till  your  husband  hears  !  We  shall  take  good 
care  that  he  does  hear. 

ENRIQUE.  Why,  mamma 

DON  HELIODORO.  Hold  your  tongue ! 

TERESA.  Yes.  What  is  the  use?  We  did  it — we  rebels, 
we  ingrates.  For  once  we  had  our  way. 

DON  HELIODORO.  Yes,  we  had  our  way,  and  it  was  a  good 
one.  We  shall  never  regret  it.  We  can  rest  satisfied  with 
a  clear  conscience. — What  is  all  this  nonsense?  Suppose 
they  did  eat  your  bread,  suppose  they  were  ungrateful  and 
owed  their  lives  to  you?  We  have  given  them  something 
which  is  better  than  life — we  have  given  them  -liberty  and 
love. 

Curtain 


LA    MALQUERIDA 

DRAMA    IN    THREE    ACTS 

FIRST  PRESENTED  BY  THE  COMPANIA  GUERRERO-MENDOZA 
AT  THE  TEATRO  DE  LA  PHINCESA,  MADRID,  ON  THE  EVE- 
NING OP  THE  TWELFTH  OF  DECEMBER,  1918 


CHARACTERS 

RAIMUNDA 
ACACIA 
JULIANA 
DONA  ISABEL 

MlLAGBOS 
FlDELA 

ENGRACIA 
BERNABEA 
GASPARA 
ESTEBAN 

NORBERT 

FAUSTINO 
Tio  EUSEBIO 
BERN  ABE 
RUBIO 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  in  Castile 


TO    MARIA    GUERRERO 


LA    MALQUERIDA 
THE    FIRST    ACT 

A  room  in  a  rich  farmer's  house,  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  a 

pueblo,  or  small  town. 
As   the   curtain  rises,    RAIMUNDA,  ACACIA,  DONA  ISABEL, 

MlLAGROS,  FlDELA,  ENGRACIA,  GASPAEA,  and  BERNABEA 

are  bidding  farewell  to  four  or  five  wormn  and  young  girls 
who  are  talcing  leave.  While  the  others  stand,  DONA 
ISABEL  remains  seated. 

GASPARA.  God  be  with  you !    Good-by,  Raimunda. 

BERNABEA.  God  be  with  you,  Dona  Isabel — and  you,  too, 
Acacia,  and  your  mother.  May  everything  turn  out  for  the 
best. 

RAIMUNDA.  Thanks.  May  we  all  live  to  see  it.  Go  down 
with  them,  Acacia. 

ALL.  Good-by  !     Good-by ! 

The  women  and  girls  retire,  keeping  up  an  animated 
chatter.    ACACIA  accompanies  them. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Bernabea  is  a  nice  girl. 

ENGRACIA.  It  is  only  a  year  since  she  got  over  that  trouble. 
No  one  would  ever  believe  it  to  look  at  her  now. 

DONA  ISABEL.  I  hear  that  she  is  going  to  be  married. 

FIDELA.  Yes,  come  next  fiesta — God  willing  and  San 
Roque. 

DONA  ISABEL.  I  am  always  the  last  person  in  the  village 
to  pick  up  gossip.  When  you  have  nothing  but  trouble  at 
home,  naturally  you  lose  interest  in  what  is  taking  place 
outside. 

201 


202  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

ENGRACIA.  How  is  your  husband  ? 

DONA  ISABEL.  He  varies — up  and  down.  The  rest  of  us 
are  thoroughly  worn  out.  We  are  not  able  to  leave  the  house, 
not  even  to  attend  mass  upon  Sundays.  I  am  used  to  it 
myself,  but  it  is  hard  on  my  daughter. 

ENGRA  TA.  I  think  you  make  a  mistake  to  keep  her  at 
home  so  much.  This  is  a  great  year  for  weddings. 

DONA  ISABEL.  But  not  for  her.  I  am  afraid  that  we  shall 
never  be  able  to  find  a  man  who  measures  up  to  her  expec- 
tations. 

i 

FIDELA.  All  the  same,  it  never  struck  me  that  she  was  born 
to  be  a  nun.  Some  day  she  will  happen  on  the  right  one. 

DONA  ISABEL.  How  are  you  pleased  with  this  match, 
Raimunda?  I  must  say  you  don't  seem  altogether  cheerful 
about  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  A  wedding  is  always  something  of  an  experi- 
ment. 

ENGRACIA.  If  you  aren't  satisfied,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
who  could  ever  be.  Your  daughter  has  had  the  pick  of  the 
entire  village. 

FIDELA.  She's  not  likely  to  want  for  anything,  either. 
We  all  know  how  well  they  will  both  be  provided  for,  which 
is  not  a  thing  you  can  afford  to  overlook. 

RAIMUNDA.  Milagros,  run  down-stairs  and  enjoy  yourself 
with  Acacia  and  the  boys.  I  hate  to  see  you  sitting  there 
all  alone  in  a  corner. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Yes,  do  go  down. — The  child  is  as  innocent 
as  the  day  that  God  made  her. 

MILAGROS.  Excuse  me.  [Goes  out. 

RAIMUNDA.  We  might  all  take  another  glass  and  some 
bizcochos. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Thanks,  I  have  had  enough. 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  no,  come,  everybody.     This  is  nothing. 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA  203 

DONA  ISABEL.  Acacia  doesn't  seem  as  happy  as  you  might 
expect,  either,  considering  that  her  engagement  was  only 
announced  to-day. 

RAIMUNDA.  She  is  as  innocent,  too,  as  God  made  her.  I 
never  saw  any  one  like  her;  she  is  so  silent.  She  distracts 
me.  For  weeks  together  she  has  not  one  word  to  say.  Then 
there  are  times  when  she  begins  to  talk,  and  her  tongue  runs 
until  it  fairly  takes  your  breath  away.  It  is  a  terrible  thing 
to  hear. 

ENGBACIA.  Naturally,  you  have  spoiled  her.  After  you 
lost  the  three  boys  she  was  all  that  you  had,  and  you  were 
too  careful.  Her  father  would  have  plucked  the  birds  out 
of  the  air  if  she  had  asked  for  them,  and  you  were  no  better. 
When  he  died — God  rest  his  soul— then  the  child  was  jealous 
of  you.  She  didn't  like  it  when  you  married  again,  and  she 
has  never  gotten  over  that  grudge  either. 

RAIMUNDA.  But  what  was  I  to  do?  I  didn't  want  tc 
marry  again.  I  should  never  have  thought  of  it  if  my 
brothers  hadn't  turned  out  the  way  that  they  did.  If  we 
had  not  had  a  man  in  the  house  to  look  after  us,  my  daughter 
and  I  would  have  been  in  the  street  before  this,  and  you 
know  it. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Yes,  this  world  is  no  place  for  single  women. 
You  were  left  a  widow  very  young. 

RAIMUNDA.  But  I  can't  see  why  my  daughter  should  be 
jealous.  I  am  her  mother,  yet  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which 
of  us  loves  or  spoils  her  the  most.  Esteban  has  never  treated 
her  like  a  stepdaughter. 

DONA  ISABEL.  No  wonder;  you  had  no  children  of  your 
own. 

RAIMUNDA.  He  never  comes  nor  goes  without  bringing  her 
a  present.  He  never  thinks  of  such  a  thing  with  me — al- 
though, of  course,  I  have  no  feeling.  She  is  my  daughter; 


204  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

it  only  makes  me  love  him  more  to  see  how  fond  he  is  of  her. 
You  won't  believe  it  when  I  tell  you,  but  she  would  never 
let  him  kiss  her  even  when  she  was  a  child,  much  less  now. 
I  have  seldom  had  to  lay  my  hand  on  her,  but  whenever  I 
have,  it  was  on  that  account. 

FIDELA.  Nobody  can  make  me  believe,  just  the  same, 
that  your  daughter  isn't  in  love  with  her  cousin. 

RAIMUNDA.  Norbert  ?  She  turned  him  off  herself  between 
night  and  morning,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  That  is 
another  thing  I  can't  understand.  We  never  could  find  out 
what  did  happen  between  them. 

FIDELA.  Nor  anybody  else.  Nobody  has  ever  been  able 
to  explain  it.  There  must  have  been  some  reason,  but  what 
it  was  is  a  mystery. 

ENGRACIA.  Well,  she  never  seemed  to  regret  it,  which  is 
more  than  I  can  say  for  him.  She  never  looked  at  him  again, 
but  he  hasn't  changed.  When  he  heard  that  Faustino  was 
coming  over  with  his  father  to-day  to  settle  the  matter  and 
arrange  things,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  took  his  gun,  and  went 
straight  up  to  Los  Berrocales.  People  who  saw  him  said 
that  you  would  have  thought  that  it  had  broken  his  heart. 

RAIMUNDA.  Neither  Esteban  nor  I  influenced  her  in  the 
least.  She  broke  with  Norbert  herself,  just  as  they  were 
ready  to  publish  the  banns.  Everybody  knows  it.  Then 
she  consented  to  see  Faustino.  He  always  had  a  fancy  for 
her.  His  father  is  a  great  friend  of  Esteban's — they  belong 
to  the  same  party  and  always  work  together.  They  have 
known  each  other  for  a  long  time.  Whenever  we  went  to 
Encinar  for  the  Feast  of  the  Virgin — or  for  any  other  fiesta 
— or  if  they  were  the  ones  who  came  here,  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  the  boy  was  nervous.  When  she  was  around  he  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  He  knew  that  there  was  something  be- 
tween her  and  her  cousin,  but  he  never  said  one  word  until 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA  205 

the  break  came,  whatever  the  reason  was,  which  we  don't 
know — no,  not  one;  but  as  soon  as  they  heard  that  she  was 
done  with  her  cousin,  Faustino's  father  spoke  to  Esteban, 
and  Esteban  spoke  to  me,  and  I  spoke  to  my  daughter,  and 
she  seemed  to  be  pleased;  so  now  they  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried. That  is  all  there  is  to  it.  If  she  is  not  satisfied,  then 
God  have  mercy  on  her  soul,  because  we  are  only  doing  it  to 
please  her.  She  has  had  her  own  way  in  everything. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Then  she  ought  to  be  happy.  Why  not? 
The  boy  is  a  fine  fellow.  Everybody  says  so. 

ENGRACIA.  Yes,  we  all  feel  as  if  he  belonged  in  the  village. 
He  lives  so  near  by,  and  his  family  is  so  well  known  that 
nobody  ever  thinks  of  them  as  strangers. 

FIDELA.  Tio  Eusebio  owns  more  land  here  than  at  Encinar. 

ENGRACIA.  Certainly,  if  you  stop  to  count.  He  inherited 
everything  from  his  Uncle  Manolito,  and  when  the  town 
lands  were  sold,  two  years  ago,  they  went  to  him. 

DONA  ISABEL.  The  family  is  the  richest  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

FIDELA.  Undoubtedly.  There  may  be  four  brothers,  but 
each  of  them  will  come  into  a  fortune. 

ENGRACIA.  Your  daughter  is  not  going  barefoot,  either. 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  she  is  an  only  child  and  will  inherit  every- 
thing. Esteban  has  taken  good  care  of  the  farm  which  she 
had  from  her  father;  he  could  not  have  done  more  if  she  had 
been  his  own  child. 

The  Angelus  sounds. 

DONA  ISABEL.  The  Angelus !  [Tfie  women  mumble  the  words 
of  the  prayer}  It  is  time  for  us  to  be  going,  Rainiunda. 
Telesforo  expects'  his  supper  early — if  the  nibble  of  nothing 
which  he  takes  can  be  called  supper. 

ENGRACIA.  It  is  time  for  us  all  to  go. 

FIDELA.  We  were  all  thinking  the  same  thing. 


206  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

RAIMUNDA.  But  won't  you  stay  to  supper?  I  don't  urge 
Dona  Isabel — I  know  she  ought  not  to  leave  her  husband. 
He  is  impatient  to  see  her  back. 

ENGRACIA.  Yes.  We  all  have  husbands  to  look  after. 
Thanks  just  the  same. 

DONA  ISABEL.  I  suppose  the  young  man  stays  to  supper  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  he  is  going  home  with  his  father  to  En- 
cinar.  They  cannot  spend  the  night.  There  is  no  moon, 
so  they  should  have  been  on  the  road  long  ago.  It  is  get- 
ting late  and  the  days  are  growing  shorter.  Before  you 
know  it,  it  is  black  night. 

ENGKACIA.  I  hear  them  coming  up  now  to  say  good-by. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  thought  so. 

ACACIA,    MILAGROS,    ESTEBAN,    Tio    EUSEBIO,    and 
FAUSTINO  enter. 

ESTEBAN.  Raimunda,  here  are  Tio  Eusebio  and  Faustino 
to  say  good-by. 

EUSEBIO.  We  must  be  off  before  dark.  The  roads  are  in 
terrible  shape  after  the  heavy  rains. 

ESTEBAN.  There  are  some  bad  stretches. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Well,  what  has  the  boy  to  say  for  himself  ? 
I  suppose  he  doesn't  remember  me.  It  is  five  years  since  I 
have  seen  him. 

EUSEBIO.  Don't  you  remember  Dona  Isabel? 

FAUSTINO.  I  do,  si,  senor.  I  was  afraid  she  didn't  remem- 
ber me. 

DONA  ISABEL.  No  fear  of  that !  My  husband  was  alcalde 
at  the  time,  when  you  gave  us  that  awful  fright,  running 
after  the  bull.  If  you  had  been  killed,  I  don't  know  what 
would  have  happened.  I  didn't  enjoy  it.  God  help  San 
Roque ! — it  would  have  put  an  end  to  his  fiesta.  We  cer- 
tainly thought  you  were  dead. 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA  207 

ENGRACIA.  Julian,  Eudosia's  husband,  was  caught  that 
year  too. 

FAUSTINO.  I  remember;  si,  senora. 

EUSEBIO.  He  remembers  perfectly,  because  I  gave  him  a 
sound  thrashing  when  he  got  home — which  he  deserved. 

FAUSTINO.  I  was  a  boy  at  the  time. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Yes — the  boy  of  it !  However,  you  have 
picked  out  the  finest  girl  in  the  village,  and  she  will  have 
no  reason  to  regret  her  choice  either.  But  we  must  be 
going.  You  have  business  of  your  own  to  attend  to. 

ESTEBAN.  No,  they  have  attended  to  everything  already. 

DoSA  ISABEL.  Good  night,  then.     Come,  Milagros. 

ACACIA.  I  want  her  to  stay  to  supper,  but  she  is  afraid 
to  ask  you.  Do  let  her  stay,  Dona  Isabel ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  do.  Bernabe  and  Juliana  will  see  her 
home  afterward,  and  Esteban  can  go  along,  too,  if  necessary. 

DONA  ISABEL.  No,  we  will  send  for  her.  You  can  stay,  to 
please  Acacia. 

RAIMUNDA.  They  have  so  many  things  to  talk  over. 

DONA  ISABEL.  God  be  with  you.  Adios,  Tio  Eusebio  and 
Esteban. 

EUSEBIO.  Adios,  Dona  Isabel.  My  best  sympathy  to  your 
husband. 

DONA  ISABEL.  Which  he  appreciates,  coming  from  you. 

ENGRACIA.  Good-by !    A  safe  return ! 

FIDELA.  God  be  with  you ! 
The  women  go  out. 

EUSEBIO.  Dona  Isabel  looks  remarkably  young.  She  must 
be  my  age  at  least.  Well,  "To  have  and  to  hold  is  to  pre- 
pare to  grow  old,"  as  the  proverb  has  it.  Dona  Isabel  was 
one  of  the  best  of  them  in  her  day,  and  in  her  day  there  were 
plenty. 

ESTEBAN.  Sit  down,  Tio  Eusebio.     What  is  your  hurry  ? 


208  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

EUSEBIO.  No,  don't  tempt  me;  it's  time  to  go.  Night  is 
coming  on.  Don't  bother  about  us.  We  have  the  hands 
along  and  shan't  need  you. 

ESTEBAN.  No,  the  walk  will  do  me  good.  I'll  see  you  to 
the  arroyo  at  least. 

RAIMUNDA,  ACACIA,  and  MILAGROS  re-enter. 

EUSEBIO.  If  you  young  folks  have  anything  to  say,  now 
is  the  time  for  you  to  say  it. 

ACACIA.  No,  we  have  settled  everything. 

EUSEBIO.  So  you  think. 

RAIMUNDA.  Come,  come !  Don't  you  try  to  embarrass 
my  daughter,  Tio  Eusebio. 

ACACIA.  Thanks  for  everything. 

EUSEBIO.  What?    Is  that  a  way  to  thank  me? 

ACACIA.  It  was  a  lovely  present. 

EUSEBIO.  The  showiest  thing  we  could  find. 

RAIMUNDA.  Entirely  too  much  so  for  a  farmer's  daughter. 

EUSEBIO.  Too  much?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  If  I'd  had  my 
way,  it  would  have  had  more  jewels  in  it  than  the  Holy 
Monstrance  at  Toledo.  Give  your  mother-in-law  a  good 
hug. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  come,  boy.  I  must  learn  to  love  you  or 
I  shall  never  forgive  you  for  taking  her  away.  My  heart 
goes  with  her. 

ESTEBAN.  Now  don't  begin  to  cry !  Come,  Acacia !  You 
don't  want  to  pass  yourself  off  for  a  Magdalen. 

MILAGROS.  Raimunda !    Acacia !       [Bursts  into  tears  also. 

ESTEBAN.  That's  right — all  together !     Come,  come ! 

EUSEBIO.  Don't  be  foolish  !  Tears  are  for  the  dead.  You 
are  only  going  to  be  married.  Try  to  be  happy  and  enjoy 
yourselves ;  everybody  is  willing.  Adios  and  good  night ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Adios,  Tfo  Eusebio.     Tell  Julia  that  I  don't 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA  209 

know  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  forgive  her  for  not 
coming  over  to-day. 

EUSEBIO.  You  know  how  bad  her  sight  is.  We'd  have  had 
to  hitch  up  the  cart,  and  it  was  up  at  Los  Berrocales.  We 
are  beginning  to  slaughter. 

RAIMUNDA.  Tell  her  how  sorry  I  am.  May  she  be  better 
soon. 

EUSEBIO.  Thanks  to  you. 

RAIMUNDA.  Now  you  had  better  be  going.  It  is  getting 
dark.  [To  ESTEBAN]  Don't  be  long. 

EUSEBIO.  I  tell  him  not  to  come. 

ESTEBAN.  Nonsense !  It  isn't  any  trouble.  I'll  go  as  far 
as  the  arroyo.  Don't  wait  supper  for  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  we  will  wait.  We're  not  anxious  to  eat 
alone  to-night.  Milagros  won't  mind  if  we  are  late. 

MILAGROS.  It  makes  no  difference  to  me. 

EUSEBIO.  God  be  with  you  all !     Good-by ! 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  we  are  coming  down  to  see  you  out. 

FAUSTINO.  I. . .  .1  have  something  to  say  to  Acacia 
first. . . . 

EUSEBIO.  It  will  have  to  wait  until  to-morrow.  You  have 
had  the  whole  day  to  yourselves. 

FAUSTINO.  Yes,  but  with  so  many  people  around,  I  had 
no  chance.  .  .  . 

EUSEBIO.  Before  we  were  through  I  knew  we  were  going 
to  get  some  of  this  nonsense. 

FAUSTINO.  It  isn't  nonsense.  Only  I  promised  mother  be- 
fore we  started  to  give  Acacia  this  scapulary.  The  nuns  in 
the  convent  made  it  on  purpose  for  her. 

ACACIA.  How  lovely ! 

MILAGROS.  Oh!  The  Blessed  Virgin  of  Carmen — with 
spangles  all  over! 

RAIMUNDA.  Very  pretty.     My  daughter  was  always  de- 


210  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

voted  to  the  Virgin.     Thank  your  mother  for  us.     We  ap- 
preciate it. 

FAUSTINO.  It  has  been  blessed. 

EUSEBIO.  Good!  Now  you  have  got  that  off  your  mind. 
I  wonder  what  your  mother  would  have  thought  if  we'd 
taken  it  home  again  with  us  ?  I  never  saw  such  a  boy !  I 
wasn't  so  backward  in  my  day.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
whom  he  does  take  after. 

Att  go  out.  For  a  moment  the  stage  remains  deserted. 
Meanwhile  it  continues  to  grow  darker.  Presently 
RAIMUNDA,  ACACIA,  and  MILAGROS  reappear. 

RAIMUNDA.  They  have  made  a  long  day  of  it.  It  is  night 
before  they  start.  How  do  you  feel,  my  dear?  Are  you 
happy  ? 

ACACIA.  You  can  see  for  yourself. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  can,  can  I  ?  That  is  exactly  what  I  want  to 
do:  see  for  myself.  Nobody  can  ever  tell  how  you  feel. 

ACACIA.  I  am  tired  out. 

RAIMUNDA.  It  has  certainly  been  a  long  day.  I  haven't 
had  a  minute's  rest  since  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

MILAGROS.  Everybody  has  been  here  to  congratulate  you. 

RAIMUNDA.  The  whole  village,  you  might  say,  beginning 
with  the  priest,  who  was  among  the  first.  We  paid  him  for 
a  mass,  and  gave  him  ten  loaves  of  bread  besides  for  the 
poor.  In  our  happiness  it  is  only  right  to  remember  others 
who  are  not  so  fortunate.  Praise  God,  we  want  for  nothing  ! 
Where  are  the  matches? 

ACACIA.  Here  they  are,  mother. 

RAIMUNDA.  Light  the  lamp,  dear.  It  makes  me  feel  sad 
to  sit  in  the  dark.  [Calling]  Juliana !  Juliana !  I  wonder 
where  she  is? 

JULIANA.  [Down-stairs]  What  do  you  want? 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA 

RAIMUNDA.  Bring  up  the  broom  and  dust-pan. 

JULIANA.  [Down-stairs]  In  a  minute. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  had  better  change  my  skirt  while  I  think  of 
it.  Nobody  will  be  in  now;  it's  so  late. 

ACACIA.  I  might  take  off  my  dress. 

RAIMUNDA.  What  for?    There  is  nothing  for  you  to  do. 
You  have  been  busy  all  day. 
JULIANA  enters. 

JULIANA.  Show  me  that  dust 

RAIMUNDA.  Stand  the  broom  in  the  corner  and  take  these 
things  away.  Mind  you  scour  them  until  they  are  clean; 
then  put  them  back  in  the  cupboard.  Be  careful  with  those 
glasses !  They  are  our  best. 

JULIANA.  Could  I  eat  a  cake  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Of  course  you  can ! — though  I  don't  see  how 
you  manage  to  hold  so  much. 

JULIANA.  I  haven't  touched  a  thing  this  whole  day,  God 
help  me !  I  am  my  mother's  own  daughter.  Haven't  I 
passed  cake  and  wine  to  the  entire  village?  Everybody  has 
been  here  to-day.  That  shows  you  what  people  think  of  this 
house — yes,  and  what  they  think  of  Tio  Eusebio  and  his 
family.  Wait  till  you  see  the  wedding !  I  know  somebody 
who  is  going  to  give  her  a  new  gold  piece,  and  somebody  who 
is  going  to  give  her  a  silk  embroidered  quilt  that  has  flowers 
all  over  it,  so  lifelike  that  the  first  thing  she  will  want  to 
do  is  pick  them  off  of  it.  That  will  be  a  great  day  for  her, 
praise  God !  Not  one  of  us  but  will  laugh  and  cry  then, 
and  I  will  be  the  first — after  her  mother;  she  will  be  first 
because  it  is  her  right,  but  you  know  me.  I  love  you  all 
in  this  house.  Besides,  you  make  me  think  of  my  dead 
daughter.  She  looked  just  like  you  do  when  she  died,  and 
we  buried  her. 

RAIMUNDA.  Never   mind   that,   Juliana.     Go   along   and 


LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

don't  dig  up  any  more  of  your  troubles.     We  have  enough 
of  our  own  already. 

JULIANA.  God  grant  that  I  may  never  be  a  trouble  to 
you !  But  everything  goes  topsyturvy  with  me  to-day, 
around  and  around,  and  every  which  way.  The  more  you 
enjoy  yourself  the  sadder  it  makes  you  feel.  God  forbid 
that  I  should  ever  drag  in  this  child's  poor  dead  father,  who 
rests  in  heaven  now,  God  bless  him !  But  I  wish  he  could 
have  seen  her  to-day !  He  was  fond  of  her. 

RAIMUNDA.  That  will  do,  Juliana !    That  will  do. 

JULIANA.  Don't  talk  like  that  to  me,  Raimunda.  It's  like 
a  blow  in  the  face,  like  beating  a  faithful  hound.  That's  what 
I  have  been  to  you  and  your  daughter  and  your  house — a 
faithful  hound,  that  has  eaten  your  bread,  God  willing,  in 
season  and  out — yes,  and  kept  her  self-respect  while  she  was 
about  it,  and  you  know  it.  [Goes  out. 

RAIMUNDA.  Juliana! — She  is  right,  though.  She  has  al- 
ways been  like  a  faithful  hound — faithful  and  loyal  to  us  and 
our  house.  [She  begins  to  sweep. 

ACACIA.  Mother 

RAIMUNDA.  Did  you  speak? 

ACACIA.  Will  you  let  me  have  the  key  to  this  chest  of 
drawers?  I  want  to  show  Milagros  some  of  my  things. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  here  it  is;  take  the  bunch.  Sit  down  and 
rest  while  I  go  and  keep  an  eye  on  the  supper. 

[She  takes  the  broom  and  goes  out. 
ACACIA  and  MILAGROS  seat  themselves  on  the  floor  before 
the  chest  of  drawers  and  open  the  lower  drawer  or  com- 
partment. 

ACACIA.  These  earrings  were  a  present  from — well,  from 
Esteban,  since  my  mother  isn't  here.  She  always  wants  me 
to  call  him  father. 

MILAGROS.  Don't  you  know  that  he  loves  you? 


ACTI  LA  MALQUERIDA 

ACACIA.  Yes,  but  you  can  have  only  one  father  and 
mother.  He  brought  me  these  handkerchiefs,  too,  from 
Toledo.  The  nuns  embroidered  the  initials.  See  all  these 
post-cards — aren't  they  pretty  ? 

MILAGROS.  What  lovely  ladies ! 

ACACIA.  Yes,  they're  actresses  from  Madrid,  or  from  Paris 
in  France.  Look  at  these  boys —  He  brought  me  this  box, 
too;  it  had  candy  in  it. 

MILAGROS.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  then .... 

ACACIA.  I  don't  say  anything.  I  know  he  loves  me,  but 
I'd  rather  have  been  left  alone  with  my  mother. 

MILAGROS.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  your  mother 
loves  you  any  less  on  his  account? 

ACACIA.  I  don't  know.  She's  wrapped  up  in  him.  How 
do  I  know,  if  she  had  to  choose  between  me  and  that  man .... 

MILAGROS.  I  think  it's  wicked  to  talk  like  that.  Suppose 
your  mother  hadn't  married  again,  what  would  she  do  now 
when  you  get  married  ?  She  would  have  no  one  to  live  with. 

ACACIA.  You  don't  suppose  that  I  would  ever  have  gotten 
married,  do  you,  if  I  had  been  living  alone  with  my  mother  ? 

MILAGROS.  Of  course  you  would !  What  difference  would 
it  make  ? 

ACACIA.  Could  I  be  as  happy  anywhere  else  as  living 
here  alone  with  my  mother? 

MILAGROS.  Don't  be  foolish.  Everybody  knows  what  a 
nice  stepfather  you  have.  If  he  hadn't  been  good  there 
would  have  been  talk,  and  I  would  have  heard  it.  So  would 
you  and  your  mother. 

ACACIA.  I  don't  say  that  he  isn't  good.  But  all  the  same 
I  wouldn't  have  married  if  my  mother  hadn't  married  again. 

MILAGROS.  Do  you  know  what  I  think? 

ACACIA.  What? 


214  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

MILAGROS.  People  are  right  when  they  say  that  you  don't 
love  Faustino.  The  one  that  you  love  is  Norbert. 

ACACIA.  That's  a  lie !  How  could  I  love  him  ? — after  the 
way  that  he  treated  me. 

MILAGROS.  Everybody  says  that  you  were  the  one  who 
turned  him  off. 

ACACIA.  I  did,  did  I?  Yes,  I  suppose  it  was  my  fault! 
Anyway,  we  won't  talk  about  it.  What  do  they  know?  I 
love  Faustino  better  than  I  ever  did  Norbert. 

MILAGROS.  I  hope  you  do.  Otherwise  you  oughtn't  to 
marry  him.  Did  you  hear  that  Norbert  left  the  village  this 
morning?  He  didn't  want  to  be  around. 

ACACIA.  What  does  he  care  ?  Why  to-day  more  than  any 
other  ?  It  is  nothing  to  him.  Here  is  the  last  letter  he  wrote 
me — after  everything  was  over.  I  never  mean  to  see  him 
again;  I  don't  know  what  I  am  keeping  it  for.  It  would 
be  more  sensible  to  tear  it  up.  [She  tears  the  letter  into  small 
pieces]  There !  That  ends  it. 

MILAGROS.  WThat  is  the  matter  with  you?  You  are  all 
excited. 

ACACIA.  It's  what  he  says.  Now  I  am  going  to  burn  the 
pieces. 

MILAGROS.  Look  out !    The  lamp  will  explode. 

ACACIA.  [Opening  the  window]  To  the  road  with  you  !  I'll 
scatter  the  ashes.  .  .  .  The  wind  blows  them  away.  ...  It 
is  over  now,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
dark  night  ? 

MILAGROS.  [Following  her  to  the  window]  It  is  black  as 
pitch — no  moon,  no  stars.  .  .  . 

ACACIA.  What  was  that? 

MILAGROS.  Somebody  slammed  a  door. 

ACACIA.  It  sounded  to  me  like  a  shot. 

MILAGROS.  Nonsense !    Who  would   be  out  shooting  at 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA  215 

this  hour  ?     Unless  there  is  a  fire  somewhere ....     No,  I 
don't  see  any  glow  in  the  sky. 

ACACIA.  I  am  frightened.     Yes,  I  am 

MILAGROS.  Don't  be  silly ! 

ACACIA.  [Running  suddenly  to  the  door}  Mother !  Mother ! 

RAIMUNDA.  [Down-stairs}  What  is  it? 

ACACIA.  Did  you  hear  anything? 

RAIMUNDA.  [Down-stairs]  Yes.  I  sent  Juliana  to  find  out. 
It's  all  right. 

ACACIA.  Oh,  mother ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Don't  be  afraid !    I  am  coming  up. 

ACACIA.  It  was  a  shot !    I  know  it  was  a  shot ! 

MILAGROS.  Suppose  it  was  ?    What  of  it  ? 

ACACIA.  God  help  us ! 
RAIMUNDA  enters. 

RAIMUNDA.  Did  it  frighten  you?    Nothing  is  the  matter. 

ACACIA.  Mother,  you  are  frightened  yourself. 

RAIMUNDA.  Because  you  are.  Naturally,  I  was  frightened 
at  first — your  father  hasn't  come  back.  But  it  is  silly. 
Nothing  could  have  happened.  What  was  that?  Do  you 
hear  ?  Some  one  is  down-stairs  !  God  help  us ! 

ACACIA.  Mother!    Mother! 

MILAGROS.  What  do  they  say?  What  are  they  talking 
about  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Stay  where  you  are.    I  am  going  down. 

ACACIA.  Mother,  don't  you  go ! 

RAIMUNDA.  I  can't  make  out  what  they  say ....  I  am  too 
excited ....  Oh,  Esteban,  my  heart !  May  no  harm  have 
come  to  you  !  [She  rushes  out. 

MILAGROS.  There  is  a  crowd  down-stairs.  They  are  com- 
ing in.  I  can't  make  out  what  they  say. . . . 

ACACIA.  Something  has  happened!  Something  awful!  I 
knew  it  all  the  time. 


216  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  i 

MILAGROS.  So  did  I,  only  I  didn't  want  to  frighten  you. 

ACACIA.  What  do  you  think? 

MILAGROS.  Don't  ask  me  !     Don't  ask  ! 

RAIMUNDA.  [Down-stairs]  Holy  Virgin !  God  save  us ! 
Terrible,  terrible !  Oh,  his  poor  mother  when  she  hears  that 
her  poor  boy  is  dead — murdered  !  I  can't  believe  it !  What 
a  terrible  thing  for  us  all ! 

ACACIA.  What  does  she  say  ?  Did  you  hear  ? — Mother  ! 
Mother !  Mother ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Acacia !  Daughter !  Don't  you  come  down  ! 
Don't  come  down !  I  am  coining  up. 

RAIMUNDA,  FIDELA,  ENGRACIA,  and  a  number  of  other 
women  enter. 

ACACIA.  What's  the  matter?  What  has  happened? 
Some  one  is  dead,  isn't  he  ?  Some  one  is  dead  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  My  poor  child !    Faustino !     Faustino ! 

ACACIA.  What? 

RAIMUNDA.  Murdered !     Shot  dead  as  he  left  the  village ! 

ACACIA.  Mother !     Ay  !    But  who  did  it  ?     WTio  did  it  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Nobody  knows.  It  was  too  dark;  they 
couldn't  see.  Every  one  thinks  it  was  Norbert — so  as  to 
fill  the  cup  of  disgrace  which  we  must  drain  in  this  house! 

ENGRACIA.  It  couldn't  have  been  any  one  else. 

WOMEN.  It  was  Xorbert !     It  was  Norbert ! 

FIDELA.  Here  come  the  constables. 

ENGRACIA.  Have  they  caught  him? 

RAIMUNDA.  And  here  is  your  father.  [EsTEBAN  enters] 
Esteban,  my  soul !  Who  did  it  ?  Do  you  know  ? 

ESTEBAN.  How  do  I  know?  I  saw  what  the  rest  did. 
Don't  leave  the  house,  do  you  hear?  I  don't  want  to  have 
you  running  around  the  village. 

RAIMUNDA.  But  how  is  his  father?  Think  of  his  poor 
mother  when  they  carry  her  boy  home  to  her  dead — mur- 


ACT  i  LA  MALQUERIDA  217 

dered !     And  he  left  her  alive,  happy,  and  well  only  this 
morning ! 

ENGRACIA.  Hanging  is  too  good  for  the  wretch  that  did  it ! 

FIDELA.  They  ought  to  have  killed  him  on  the  spot ! 
Such  a  tiling  never  happened  before  in  this  village. 

RAIMUNDA.  Esteban,  don't  let  them  take  the  body  away. 
I  must  see  him — and  so  must  my  daughter.  He  was  to 
have  been  her  husband. 

ESTEBAN.  Keep  cool !  There  is  plenty  of  time.  I  don't 
want  you  to  leave  the  house,  do  you  hear  ?  It's  in  the  hands 
of  the  law  now;  the  doctor  and  priest  were  too  late.  I  must 
hurry  back;  we  all  have  depositions  to  make. 

[ESTEBAN  retires. 

RAIMUNDA.  Your  father  is  right.  What  can  we  do  ? — ex- 
cept commend  his  soul  to  God,  who  was  his  Maker.  I  can't 
get  his  poor  mother  out  of  my  head !  Don't  take  it  so  hard, 
Acacia.  It  frightens  me  to  see  you  so  still.  It  is  worse  than 
if  you  cried  your  heart  out.  Who  would  ever  have  believed 
this  morning  that  such  a  thing  could  be  ?  But  it  is !  A 
curse  has  fallen  upon  us ! 

ENGRACIA.  The  shot  went  straight  through  his  heart. 

FIDELA.  He  fell  off  his  horse,  like  a  log. 

RAIMUNDA.  What  a  shame,  what  a  disgrace  to  the  village  ! 
I  blush  to  think  that  the  murderer  was  born  in  this  place, 
that  he  was  one  of  us,  and  walked  about  here  with  all  that 
evil  in  his  heart!  He  is  one  of  our  own  family,  to  make  it 
worse ! 

GASPARA.  But  we  aren't  sure  of  that. 

RAIMUNDA.  Who  else  could  it  be?    Everybody  says  so. 

ENGRACIA.    Everybody  says  it  was  Norbert. 

FIDELA.  It  couldn't  have  been  any  one  but  Norbert ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Light  the  candles,  Milagros,  before  the  image 


218  LA  MA.QUERIDA  ACT  i 


of  the  Virgin.     Let  us  teH-iwr  a  rosary,  since  we  can  do  no 
more  than  pray  for  the  dead. 

GASPARA.  God  rest  his  soul ! 

ENGRACIA.  He  died  without  confession. 

FIDELA.  From  Purgatory,  good  Lord,  deliver  us. 

ALL.  God  rest  his  soul ! 

RAIMUNDA.  [To  MILAGROS]  You  begin  the  rosary;   I  can- 
not pray.     I  am  thinking  of  his  mother's  broken  heart ! 
The  women  begin  to  tett  the  rosary. 

Curtain 


THE    SECOND    ACT 

Entrance  Hall  of  a  farmhouse.  There  is  a  large  door  at  the 
rear,  on  either  side  of  which  is  a  window,  having  an  iron 
grating.  A  door  on  the  left,  and  another  on  the  right. 

ESTEBAN  is  seated  at  a  small  table,  taking  lunch.  RAIMUNDA 
waits  upon  him,  seated  also.  JULIANA  comes  and  goes,  as- 
sisting with  the  service.  ACACIA  sits  in  a  low  chair  near 
one  of  the  windows,  sewing.  A  basket  of  clothes  stands 
beside  her. 

RAIMUNDA.  Don't  you  like  it? 

ESTEBAN.  Of  course  I  do. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  haven't  eaten  anything.  Do  you  want 
us  to  cook  something  else? 

ESTEBAN.  Don't  bother  me,  my  dear.     I  have  had  plenty. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  don't  expect  me  to  believe  that.  [Call- 
ing] Juliana !  Bring  the  salad ! — Something  is  the  matter 
with  you. 

ESTEBAN.  Don't  be  silly. 

RAIMUNDA.  Don't  you  suppose  that  I  know  you  by  this 
time  ?  You  ought  never  to  have  gone  to  the  village.  You've 
heard  talk.  We  came  out  here  to  the  grove  to  get  rid  of 
it  all,  to  be  away  from  the  excitement,  and  it  was  a  good 
thing,  too,  that  we  did.  Now  you  go  back  to  the  village 
and  don't  say  one  word  to  me  about  it.  What  did  you  want 
to  do  that  for  ? 

ESTEBAN.  I  wanted  to  see  Norbert  and  his  father. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  but  you  could  have  sent  for  them  and 
have  had  them  come  out  here.  You  ought  to  have  spared 

319 


LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

yourself;  then  you  wouldn't  have  heard  all  this  talk.  I 
know  how  they  are  talking  in  the  village. 

JULIANA.  Yes,  and  that  is  all  the  good  it  does  us  to  stay 
out  here  and  shut  ourselves  up  from  everybody,  because 
everybody  that  goes  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood  passes 
through  this  grove,  and  then  they  stop,  and  smell  around, 
and  meddle  in  what  is  none  of  their  business. 

ESTEBAN.  Yes,  and  you  meddle  with  every  one  of  them. 

JULIANA.  No,  senor;  don't  you  make  any  mistake.  I 
meddle  with  nobody.  Didn't  I  scold  Bernabea  only  yester- 
day for  talking  more  than  she  had  any  right  to  with  some  men 
from  Encinar  who  were  coming  down  the  road  ?  If  any  one 
asks  questions  send  them  to  me,  because  I've  learned  what  to 
do  from  my  mother,  who  had  good  reason  to  know:  When 
questioned  much,  answer  little,  and  be  sure  you  make  it  just 
the  opposite. 

RAIMUNDA.  Hold  your  tongue!  And  get  out.  [JULIANA 
retires]  What  do  they  say  in  the  village? 

ESTEBAN.  Nothing.  Tio  Eusebio  and  his  boys  swear  they 
are  going  to  kill  Norbert.  They  refuse  to  accept  the  decision 
of  the  court;  he  got  off  too  easily.  They  are  coming  over 
some  day,  and  then  there  will  be  trouble.  You  hear  both 
sides  in  the  village.  Some  think  that  Tio  Eusebio  is  right, 
that  it  must  have  been  Norbert;  others  think  it  wasn't  Nor- 
bert. They  say  that  the  court  let  him  go  because  he  was 
innocent,  and  he  proved  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  That  is  what  I  think.  No  one  could  contra- 
dict his  deposition;  not  even  Faustino's  father  could  find 
any  flaws  in  it,  nor  the  hands.  You  couldn't  yourself,  and 
you  were  with  them. 

ESTEBAN.  Tio  Eusebio  and  I  had  stopped  to  light  our 
cigars.  \Ve  were  laughing  like  two  fools  because  I  had  my 
lighter,  and  it  wouldn't  light;  so  Tio  Eusebio  got  out  his 


ACT  ii  LA   MALQUERIDA  221 

tinder  and  flint  and  said  to  me,  laughing:  "Here,  get  a  light, 
and  don't  waste  your  time  with  that  new-fangled  machine. 
All  it  is  good  for  is  to  help  fools  waste  their  money.  I  still 
make  out  with  this."  That  was  what  blinded  us.  We  were 
fooling  over  the  light  when  the  shot  was  fired.  We  started 
up  and  could  see  nothing.  Then,  when  we  saw  that  he  had 
dropped  dead,  we  stood  stock-still,  as  dead  as  he  was.  They 
could  have  finished  us,  too,  while  they  were  about  it,  and  we 
would  never  have  known  it. 

ACACIA  gets  up  suddenly  and  starts  to  go  out. 

RAIMUNDA.  Where  are  you  going,  my  dear?  Don't  be 
nervous. 

ACACIA.  You  never  talk  about  anything  else.  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  stand  it.  Hasn't  he  told  us  how  it  happened 
over  and  over  again  ?  Do  we  have  to  hear  the  same  thing 
all  the  time? 

ESTEBAN.  She  is  right.  If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  never  men- 
tion it  again;  it's  your  mother. 

ACACIA.  I  even  dream  about  it  at  night.  I  never  used  to 
be  nervous  when  I  was  alone  or  in  the  dark,  but  now  I  am 
frightened  to  death,  even  in  broad  daylight. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  are  not  the  only  one,  either.  I  get  no 
rest,  day  nor  night.  I  never  used  to  be  afraid.  I  thought 
nothing  of  passing  the  cemetery  after  dark,  not  even  on 
All  Souls'  Eve,  but  now  the  least  thing  makes  me  jump,  no 
matter  what — noise,  silence.  To  tell  the  truth,  as  long  as 
we  thought  it  was  Norbert,  although  he  was  one  of  the  family, 
and  it  would  have  been  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  us  all,  at 
the  same  time  it  couldn't  be  helped;  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  resign  oneself — and  I  had  resigned  myself.  After 
all,  it  had  an  explanation.  But  now,  if  it  wasn't  Norbert,  if 
nobody  knows  who  it  was,  and  nobody  can  explain  why  it 
was  that  that  poor  boy  was  shot — I  can't  be  easy  in  my  mind. 


222  I A   MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

If  it  wasn't  Norbert,  who  could  have  wished  him  any  harm  ? 
Maybe  it  was  revenge,  some  enemy  of  his  father's,  or  of  yours 
— how  do  we  know  but  that  the  shot  was  intended  for  you, 
and  since  it  was  night  and  pitch-dark,  they  made  a  mistake, 
and  what  they  didn't  do  then  they  will  another  time,  and .... 
I  can't  stand  this  suspense !  I  get  no  rest !  Every  time  that 
you  go  out  of  the  house  and  show  yourself  on  the  road,  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  will  go  crazy.  To-day,  when  you  were 
late,  I  was  just  starting  for  the  village  myself. 

ACACIA.  She  was  out  on  the  road  already. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  only  I  saw  you  and  Rubio  from  the  top 
of  the  hill,  so  I  turned  and  ran  back  before  you  passed  the 
mill,  so  you  wouldn't  be  angry.  I  know  it  is  foolish,  but 
now  I  want  to  be  with  you  all  the  time,  wherever  you  go — 
I  can't  bear  to  be  separated  from  you  for  one  moment. 
Otherwise  I  can't  be  happy.  This  isn't  living. 

ESTEBAN.  I  don't  believe  anybody  wishes  me  any  harm. 
I  never  wronged  any  man.  I  go  wherever  I  please,  without 
so  much  as  giving  it  a  thought,  day  or  night. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  used  to  feel  the  same;  there  is  nobody  who 
could  wish  us  harm.  We  have  helped  so  many.  But  all 
that  you  need  is  one  enemy,  one  envious,  evil  mind.  How 
do  we  know  but  that  we  have  some  enemy  without  our  sus- 
pecting it  ?  A  second  shot  might  come  from  the  same  quar- 
ter as  the  first.  Norbert  is  free  because  they  couldn't  prove 
that  he  was  guilty;  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  Why  shouldn't  I 
be  glad  when  he  is  my  own  sister's  son — my  favorite  sister's  ? 
I  could  never  have  believed  that  Norbert  could  have  done 
such  a  thing  as  murder  a  man  in  the  dark !  But  is  this  to 
be  the  end  of  it  ?  What  is  the  law  doing  now  ?  Why  don't 
they  investigate,  why  doesn't  some  one  speak?  Somebody 
must  know,  somebody  must  have  seen  whoever  it  was  that 
was  there  that  day,  hovering  along  the  road.  When  every- 


ACT  ii  LA  MALQUERIDA  223 

thing  is  all  right,  everybody  knows  who  is  passing,  and  what 
is  going  on — who  comes  and  who  goes — you  hear  it  all  with- 
out asking;  but  when  you  want  to  know,  then  nobody 
knows,  nobody  has  seen  anything. 

ESTEBAN.  I  can't  see  why  that  is  so  strange.  When  a 
man  is  going  about  his  business,  he  has  nothing  to  conceal; 
but  when  his  intentions  are  evil,  naturally  the  first  thing  he 
does  is  to  hide  himself. 

RAIMUNDA.  Who  do  you  think  that  it  was? 

ESTEBAN.  I?  To  tell  the  truth,  I  thought  it  was  Nor- 
bert,  the  same  as  you.  If  it  wasn't  Norbert,  I  don't  know 
who  it  was. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  suppose  you  won't  like  it,  but  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  do. 

ESTEBAN.  What? 

RAIMUNDA.  Talk  to  Norbert.  Bernabe  has  gone  to  find 
him.  I  expect  him  any  minute. 

ACACIA.  Norbert?  What  do  you  want  to  talk  to  him 
for? 

ESTEBAN.  That  is  what  I  say.  What  does  he  know 
about  it? 

RAIMUNDA.  How  can  I  tell  ?  But  I  know  he  won't  lie  to 
me.  By  the  memory  of  his  mother,  I  will  make  him  tell  me 
the  truth.  If  he  did  it,  he  knows  I  will  never  tell.  I  can't 
stand  this  any  longer.  I  shake  all  over. 

ESTEBAN.  Do  you  suppose  that  Norbert  is  going  to  tell 
you  if  he  was  the  one  who  did  it? 

RAIMUNDA.  After  I  talk  to  him  I  shall  know. 

ESTEBAN.  Well,  have  your  own  way.  It  will  only  make 
more  talk  and  hard  feeling,  especially  since  Tio  Eusebio  is 
coming  over  to-day.  If  they  meet.  .  .  . 

RAIMUNDA.  They  won't  meet  on  the  road,  because  they 


224  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

come   from   different   directions.     After    they   are   here    the 
house  is  big  enough.     We  can  take  care  of  them  both. 
JULIANA  enters. 

JULIANA.  Master. . . . 

ESTEBAN.  Why  are  you  always  bothering  me? 

JULIANA.  Tio  Eusebio  is  coming  down  the  road.  Maybe 
you  don't  want  to  see  him;  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
know. . . . 

ESTEBAN.  Why  shouldn't  I  want  to  see  him?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  he  was  coming  ? — Now  bring  in  the  other  one ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  he  can't  come  too  soon  to  please  me. 

ESTEBAN.  Who  told  you  that  I  didn't  want  to  see  Tio 
Eusebio  ? 

JULIANA.  Oh,  don't  blame  it  on  me !  It  wasn't  my  fault. 
Rubio  says  you  don't  want  to  see  him  because  he  is  mad  at 
you.  You  didn't  side  with  him  in  court,  and  that's  the  reason 
that  Norbert  went  free. 

ESTEBAN.  I'll  teach  Rubio  it's  none  of  his  business  whom 
I  side  with. 

JULIANA.  Yes,  and  there  are  other  things  you  might  teach 
him  while  you  are  about  it.  Have  I  nothing  to  do  but  wait 
on  that  man  ?  God  help  me,  he  has  had  more  to  drink  to-day 
than  is  good  for  him.  And  that  isn't  talk,  either. 

RAIMUNDA.  This  is  the  last  straw !    Where  is  he  ? 

ESTEBAN.  No,  leave  him  to  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  Everything  goes  wrong  in  this  house.  Every- 
body takes  advantage  of  you  as  soon  as  anything  is  the 
matter.  You  don't  need  to  turn  your  back — it's  instinct. 
They  know  when  you  can't  take  care  of  yourself. 

JULIANA.  I'll  not  take  that  from  you,  Raimunda,  if  you 
mean  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  know  who  I  mean.  Take  it  any  way  you 
like. 


ACT  H  LA   MALQUERIDA  225 

JULIANA.  Senor,  senor !  What  curse  has  fallen  on  this 
house?  We  are  all  poisoned,  snared,  our  feet  are  caught  in 
some  evil  vine;  we  are  changed.  One  takes  it  out  on  the 
other,  and  everybody  is  against  me.  God  help  me,  I  say, 
and  give  me  the  strength  to  endure  it ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  and  give  me  the  strength  to  endure 
you. 

JULIANA.  Yes,  me !    It  is  all  my  fault. 

RAIMUNDA.  Look  at  me,  will  you  ?  Do  I  have  to  tell  you 
to  your  face  to  get  out?  That's  all  I  want  from  you. 

JULIANA.  Yes,  you  want  me  to  shut  up  like  a  tomb.  Well, 
I'll  shut  up,  God  help  me !  Senor !  Let  me  out !  Don't 
talk  to  me !  [Goes  out. 

ESTEBAN.  Here  comes  Tio  Eusebio. 

ACACIA.  I  am  going.  He  breaks  down  and  cries  when- 
ever he  sees  me.  He  doesn't  know  what  he  is  doing,  but  it's 
always  the  wrong  thing.  Does  he  think  he  is  the  only  one 
who  has  lost  anything? 

RAIMUNDA.  I  am  sure  I  have  cried  as  much  as  his  mother 
has.  Tio  Eusebio  is  not  the  same  man;  he  forgets.  But 
never  mind.  You  are  right' not  to  see  him. 

ACACIA.  I  have  finished  the  shirts,  mother.  I'll  iron  them 
as  soon  as  I  have  time. 

ESTEBAN.  Were  you  sewing  for  me? 

ACACIA.  You  can  see  for  yourself. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  don't  know  how  we'd  get  on  if  she  didn't 
sew.  I  am  not  good  for  anything.  I  don't  know  whether 
I  am  alive  or  dead,  God  help  me !  But  she  can  work.  She 
gets  through  with  it  somehow.  [She  caresses  ACACIA  affec- 
tionately as  she  passes  out]  God  bless  you,  Acacia,  my  child  ! 
[ACACIA  goes  out]  It  is  a  terrible  responsibility  to  be  a  mother. 
For  a  long  time  I  was  afraid  that  she  was  going  to  get  mar- 


226  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

ried  and  leave  me.     Now,  what  wouldn't  I  give  to  see  her 
married  ? 

Tfo  EUSEBIO  enters. 

EUSEBIO.  Hello !    Where  is  everybody  ? 

ESTEBAN.  Come  in,  Tio  Eusebio. 

EUSEBIO.  Good  morning  to  both. 

RAIMUNDA.  Good  morning,  Tio  Eusebio. 

ESTEBAN.  Where  are  your  horses  ?     I'll  have  them  put  up. 

EUSEBIO.  My  man  will  tend  to  that. 

ESTEBAN.  Sit  down.  Come,  a  glass  of  that  wine  he  likes 
so  much,  Raimunda. 

EUSEBIO.  No,  no,  thank  you.  I  am  not  feeling  well. 
Wine  doesn't  agree  with  me. 

ESTEBAN.  This  wine  will  do  you  good.     It's  a  tonic. 

RAIMUNDA.  Suit  yourself.  How  are  you,  Tio  Eusebio? 
How  is  Julia? 

EUSEBIO.  Julia?  What  do  you  expect?  I  am  going  to 
lose  her  just  as  I  did  the  boy;  I  can  see  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  God  forbid !  Hasn't  she  four  sons  yet  to  live 
for? 

EUSEBIO.  Yes,  the  more  worry!  That  is  what  is  killing 
her — worry.  Nobody  knows  what  will  happen  next.  Our 
hearts  are  broken.  We  were  sure  that  we  would  get  justice; 
but  now  we  are  bitter.  Everybody  said  it  would  be  like  this, 
but  we  didn't  believe  it.  The  murderer  is  alive — you  pass 
him  on  the  street;  he  goes  home  to  his  house,  shuts  the  door, 
and  laughs  at  us.  It  only  proves  what  I  knew  all  the  time. 
There  is  no  such  thing  in  this  world  as  justice,  unless  a  man 
takes  it  with  his  own  hands,  which  is  what  they  will  drive  us 
to  do'  now.  That  is  why  I  wanted  to  see  you  yesterday. 
If  my  boys  come  into  the  village,  send  them  home.  Don't 
let  them  stay  around.  Arrest  them — anything  rather  than 
another  tragedy  in  our  house;  although  I  don't  want  to  see 


ACTH  LA  MALQUERIDA  227 

his  murderer  go  free — the  murderer  of  my  boy — unless  God 
avenges  him,  as  he  must,  by  God ! — or  else  there  is  no  jus- 
tice in  heaven. 

RAIMUNDA.  Don't  turn  against  God,  Tio  Eusebio.  Though 
the  hand  of  justice  never  fall  upon  him  after  the  foul  murder 
he  has  done,  yet  there  is  not  one  of  us  that  would  be  in  his 
place.  He  is  alone  with  his  conscience.  I  would  not  have 
what  he  has  on  his  soul  upon  mine,  for  all  the  blessings  of 
this  world.  We  have  lived  good  lives,  we  have  done  evil  to 
no  man,  yet  all  our  days  are  purgatory  and  torment.  He 
must  have  hell  in  his  heart  after  what  he  has  done — of  that 
we  can  be  sure — as  sure  as  of  the  day  of  our  death. 

EUSEBIO.  That  is  cold  comfort  to  me.  How  does  it  help 
me  prevent  my  boys  from  taking  the  law  into  their  own  hands  ? 
Justice  has  not  been  done — and  it  should  have  been  done. 
Now  they  are  the  ones  who  will  go  to  jail  for  it !  They 
will  make  good  their  threats  too.  You  ought  to  hear  them. 
Even  the  little  fellow,  who  is  only  twelve,  doubles  up  his 
fists  like  a  man,  and  swears  that  whoever  killed  his  brother 
will  have  to  reckon  with  him,  come  what  may.  I  sit  there 
and  cry  like  a  child.  I  needn't  tell  you  how  his  mother  feels. 
And  all  the  while  I  have  it  in  my  heart  to  say :  Go,  my  sons  ! 
Stone  him  until  he  is  dead !  Cut  him  to  pieces  like  a  hound  ! 
Drag  his  carcass  home  to  me  through  the  mire — what  offal 
there  is  left  of  it !  Instead  I  swallow  it  all  and  look  grave, 
and  tell  them  that  it  is  wrong  even  to  think  of  such  a  thing 
— it  would  kill  their  mother,  it  would  ruin  all  of  us ! 

RAIMUNDA.  You  are  unreasonable,  Tio  Eusebio.  Norbert 
is  innocent;  the  law  says  so.  No  one  could  bring  the  least 
proof  against  him;  he  proved  where  he  was,  and  what  he  was 
doing  all  that  day,  one  hour  after  the  other.  He  and  his  men 
were  up  at  Los  Berrocales.  Don  Faustino,  the  doctor,  saw 
him  there  and  talked  with  him  at  the  very  hour  it  took  place,  ' 


LA  MALQUERIDA  xcrn 

and  he  is  from  Encinar.  You  know  yourself  no  man  can  be 
in  two  places  at  the  same  time.  You  might  think  that  his 
own  people  had  been  told  to  say  what  they  did,  although  it 
isn't  an  easy  thing  for  so  many  to  agree  on  a  lie;  but  Don 
Faustino  is  a  friend  of  yours;  he  is  in  your  debt.  And  others 
who  would  naturally  have  been  on  your  side  said  the  same. 
Only  one  shepherd  from  Los  Berrocales  would  testify  that  he 
ha/1  seen  a  man  at  that  hour,  and  that  was  a  great  way  off; 
but  he  had  no  idea  who  it  was.  From  his  clothes  and  the 
way  that  he  carried  himself  he  was  sure  that  it  could  not 
have  been  Norbert. 

EUSEBIO.  If  it  wasn't,  I  say  nothing.  Does  it  make  it 
any  better  for  us  that  he  hired  some  one  else  to  do  it  ?  There 
can't  be  any  doubt;  there  is  no  other  explanation.  I  have 
no  enemies  who  would  do  such  a  thing.  I  never  harmed 
any  man;  I  help  every  one,  whether  they  are  our  own  people 
or  not.  I  make  it  easy.  If  I  were  to  sue  for  one-half  the 
damage  that  is  done  me  every  day,  it  would  take  all  of  my 
time.  I  will  die  a  poor  man.  They  killed  Faustino  because 
he  was  .going  to  marry  Acacia.  That  is  all  there  is  to  it. 
Nobody  could  have  had  any  such  reason  but  Norbert.  If 
everybody  had  told  what  they  knew,  the  trial  would  have 
ended  right  there.  But  the  ones  who  knew  most  said  the 
least;  they  said  nothing. 

RAIMUXDA.  Do  you  mean  us? 

EUSEBIO.  I  don't  say  who  I  mean. 

RAIMUNDA.  It  is  plain  enough;  you  don't  have  to  mention 
names  nor  point  your  finger.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we 
keep  quiet  because  Norbert  is  one  of  our  family? 

EUSEBIO.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Acacia  doesn't  know 
more  about  this  thing  than  she  is  willing  to  admit? 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  sir,  she  knows  no  more  about  it  than  you 
do.  You  have  made  up  your  mind  that  it  was  Norbert  be- 


ACTH  LA   MALQUERIDA  229 

cause  you  want  to  make  yourself  believe  that  nobody  else  has 
anything  against  you.  We  are  none  of  us  saints,  Tio  Eusebio. 
You  may  have  done  a  great  deal  of  good  in  your  time,  but 
you  must  also  have  done  some  evil;  you  think  that  nobody 
remembers,  but  maybe  the  ones  who  have  suffered  don't 
think  the  same.  If  Norbert  had  been  in  love  with  my 
daughter  to  that  extent,  he  would  have  shown  it  before  now. 
Your  son  didn't  take  her  away  from  him,  remember  that. 
Faustino  never  said  one  word  until  after  she  was  done  with 
Norbert,  and  she  turned  him  off  because  she  knew  he  was 
going  with  another  girl.  He  never  so  much  as  took  the 
trouble  to  excuse  himself,  so  that  when  you  come  down  to 
it,  he  was  the  one  who  left  her.  That  is  no  reason  why 
any  one  should  commit  murder.  You  can  see  it  yourself. 

EUSEBIO.  Then  why  did  everybody  say  that  it  couldn't 
have  been  any  one  else?  You  said  so  yourself;  everybody 
said  so. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  because  at  first  he  was  the  only  one  we 
could  think  of.  But  when  you  look  at  it  calmly,  it  is  fool- 
ish to  say  that  he  is  the  only  one  who  could  have  done  it. 
You  insinuate  that  we  have  something  to  conceal.  Once 
for  all,  let  me  tell  you,  we  are  more  anxious  than  you  are  to 
have  the  truth  known,  to  have  this  thing  out  and  be  done 
with  it.  You  have  lost  a  son,  but  I  have  a  daughter  who 
is  alive,  and  she  has  nothing  to  gain,  either,  by  this  mystery. 

EUSEBIO.  No,  she  hasn't.  Much  less  when  she  keeps  her 
mouth  shut.  And  you  haven't  anything  to  gain.  You  don't 
know  what  Norbert  and  his  father  say  about  this  house  so 
as  to  divert  suspicion  from  themselves  ?  If  I  believed  what 
they  said .... 

RAIMUNDA.  About  us?  What  do  they  say  ?  [To  ESTEBAN] 
You  have  been  in  the  village.  What  do  they  say? 

ESTEBAN.  Nobody  cares  what  they  say. 


230  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  u 

EUSEBIO.  No,  I  don't  believe  one  word  that  comes  from 
them.  I  am  only  telling  you  how  they  repay  the  kindness 
you  do  them  by  taking  their  part. 

RAIMUNDA.  So  you  are  on  that  tack  again  ?  Tio  Eusebio, 
I  have  to  stop  and  force  myself  to  think  what  it  must  mean 
to  lose  a  child,  or  I  would  lose  control  of  myself.  I  am  a 
mother,  God  knows,  yet  you  come  here  and  insult  my  daugh- 
ter. You  insult  all  of  us. 

ESTEBAN.  Wife  !  Enough  of  this.  What  is  the  use  ?  Tio 
Eusebio.  . . . 

EUSEBIO.  I  insult  nobody.  I  only  repeat  what  other  peo- 
ple say.  You  suppress  the  truth  because  he  is  one  of  the 
family.  The  whole  village  is  the  same.  What  you  are 
afraid  of  is  the  disgrace.  People  here  may  think  that  it  was 
not  Norbert,  but  in  Encinar,  let  me  tell  you,  they  think  that 
it  was.  If  justice  isn't  done — and  done  quick — blood  will 
be  spilled  between  these  villages,  and  nobody  can  stop  it, 
either.  You  know  what  young  blood  is. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  and  you  are  the  one  who  stirs  it  up. 
You  respect  neither  God  nor  man.  Why,  didn't  you  just 
admit  that  Norbert  couldn't  have  done  it  unless  he  had 
hired  some  one  to  commit  the  murder  ?  Nonsense  !  It  isn't 
so  easy  to  hire  a  man  to  commit  murder.  What  had  a  boy 
like  Norbert  to  give,  anyway? — Unless  you  want  us  to  be- 
lieve that  his  father  had  a  hand  in  it. 

EUSEBIO.  Bah !  Rogues  come  cheap.  How  about  the 
Valderrobles  ?  They  live  here.  Didn't  they  kill  two  goat- 
herds for  three  and  a  half  duros  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  How  long  was  it  before  they  were  found  out? 
They  fought  over  the  half  duro.  When  you  hire  a  man  to 
do  a  deed  like  that,  you  put  yourself  in  his  power;  you  be- 
come his  slave  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  There  may  be  people 
who  can  afford  to  do  such  tilings,  but  they  must  be  rich, 
they  must  have  power.  Not  a  boy  like  Norbert ! 


ACT  ii  LA  MALQUERIDA  231 

EUSEBIO.  Every  family  has  a  faithful  servant  who  will 
do  what  he  is  told. 

RAIMUNDA.  No  doubt  yours  has.  No  doubt  you  have 
had  occasion  to  use  him  too;  you  know  so  much  about  it. 

EUSEBIO.  Take  care  what  you  say ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Take  care  yourself ! 

ESTEBAN.  Raimunda !  Enough  of  this.  What  is  the  use 
of  all  this  talk  ? 

EUSEBIO.  Well,  you  hear  what  she  says.    How  about  you  ? 

ESTEBAN.  If  we  dwell  on  this  forever,  we  shall  all  of 
us  go  mad. 

EUSEBIO.  Yes.     You  heard  what  I  said. 

RAIMUNDA.  If  you  mean  by  that  that  you  don't  intend  to 
let  this  matter  drop  until  you  have  found  the  murderer  of 
your  boy,  it  is  only  right  and  proper,  and  I  respect  you  for 
it.  But  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  come  here  and 
insult  us.  Once  for  all,  you  may  want  justice,  but  I  want  it 
more  than  you  do.  I  pray  to  God  for  it  every  day,  I  pray 
him  on  my  knees  not  to  let  the  murderer  go  free — and  I 
should  pray  to  him  just  the  same  if  I  had  a  boy — if  it  had 
been  my  own  boy  that  did  it ! 

RUBIO  appears  in  the  doorway. 

RUBIO.  How  about  me,  master? 

ESTEBAN.  Well,  Rubio? 

RUBIO.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that;  I'm  not  drunk.  We 
started  out  before  lunch,  that  was  all.  I  had  an  invitation 
and  took  a  drop;  it  went  against  me.  I'm  sorry  you  feel 
that  way  about  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  Juliana  was 
right. 

RUBIO.  Tell  Juliana  to  mind  her  business,  will  you?  I 
just  wanted  to  tell  the  master. 

ESTEBAN.  Rubio!  You  can  tell  me  later  whatever  you 
like.  Tio  Eusebio  is  here.  Don't  you  see  ?  We  are  busy. 


232  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  11 

RUBIO.  Tio  Eusebio  ?     So  he  is.     What  does  he  want  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Is  it  any  of  your  business  what  he  wants? 
Get  out !  Go  along  and  sleep  it  off.  You  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about. 

RUBIO.  I  know,  senora.     Don't  say  that  to  me. 

ESTEBAN.  Rubio! 

RUBIO.  Juliana's  a  fool;  I  don't  drink.  It  was  my  money, 
anyhow.  I'm  no  thief.  What  I  have  is  my  own;  and  my 
wife  is  my  own,  too.  She  owes  nobody  anything,  eh,  master  ? 

ESTEBAN.  Rubio !  Go  along !  Get  to  bed,  and  don't 
show  yourself  again  until  you  have  had  a  good  sleep.  What 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  will  Tio  Eusebio  think  ? 

RUBIO.  I  don't  know.  I  don't  take  anything,  understand 
— from  anybody.  [Goes  out. 

RAIMUNDA.  What  was  it  that  you  were  just  saying  about 
servants,  Tio  Eusebio  ?  This  man  has  us  with  our  hearts  in 
our  throats,  yet  he  is  nothing  to  us.  Suppose  we  had  trusted 
him  with  some  secret?  Wliat  is  the  matter  with  Rubio, 
anyway?  Is  he  going  to  get  drunk  every  day?  He  was 
never  like  this  before.  You  ought  not  to  put  up  with  it. 

ESTEBAN.  Don't  you  see?  He  isn't  used  to  it.  That  is 
the  reason  he  is  upset  by  a  thimbleful.  Somebody  invited 
him  into  the  tavern  while  I  was  tending  to  my  business.  I 
gave  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  and  sent  him  to  bed,  but  he 
hasn't  slept  it  off  yet.  He  is  drunk.  That  is  all  there  is  to  it. 

EUSEBIO.  Perfectly  natural.     Is  that  all? 

ESTEBAN.  Drop  in  again,  Tio  Eusebio. 

EUSEBIO.  Thanks.  I  am  sorry  this  happened — after  I 
took  the  trouble  to  come. 

RAIMUNDA.  Nonsense !  Nothing  has  happened.  We  have 
no  hard  feeling. 

EUSEBIO.  No,  and  I  hope  you  won't  have  any.  Remem- 
ber what  I've  been  through.  My  heart  is  broken — it's  not 


ACT  ii  LA  MALQUERIDA  233 

scratched.  It  won't  heal  either  until  God  claims  another 
one  of  his  own.  How  long  do  you  expect  to  stay  in  the 
grove  ? 

ESTEBAN.  Till  Sunday.  We  have  nothing  to  keep  us. 
We  only  wanted  to  be  out  of  the  village.  Now  that  Norbert 
is  home,  it  is  nothing  but  talk,  talk,  talk. 

EUSEBIO.  That's  right — nothing  but  talk.  If  you  see  my 
boys  around,  look  out !  I  don't  want  them  to  get  into  any 
trouble,  which  afterward  we  might  have  cause  to  regret. 

ESTEBAN.  Don't  you  worry.  They  won't  get  into  any 
while  I  am  around.  Blame  it  on  me  if  they  do. 

EUSEBIO.  They're  working  down  by  the  river  now.  They'll 
be  all  right  unless  somebody  happens  along  and  stirs  them  up. 
God  be  with  you,  I  say.  Adios  !  Where  is  Acacia  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  I  told  her  not  to  come  down,  so  as  to  spare 
your  feelings.  It  is  hard  on  her,  too;  it  brings  back  every- 
thing. 

EUSEBIO.  That's  so.     It  must. 

ESTEBAN.  I'll  send  for  your  horses. 

EUSEBIO.  No,  I  can  call  myself. — Francisco ! — Here  he 
comes.  Take  care  of  yourselves.  'God  be  with  you ! 

[They  move  toward  the  door. 

RAIMUNDA.  God  be  with  you,  Tio  Eusebio.  Tell  Julia  not 
to  worry.  I  think  of  her  every  day.  I  have  prayed  more  for 
her  than  I  have  for  the  boy — God  has  forgiven  him  by  this 
time.  Surely  he  never  did  anything  to  deserve  such  a  bad 
end !  My  heart  bleeds  for  him. 

ESTEBAN  and  Tio  EUSEBIO  have  passed  out  while  she 

is  speaking. 
BERNABE  enters. 

BERN  ABE.  Senora! 

RAIMUNDA.  Is  Norbert  here?     Could  you  find  him? 


234  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

BERNABE.  Yes,  I  brought  him  along  so  as  to  save  time. 
He  wanted  to  see  you  himself. 

RAIMUNDA.  Didn't  you  meet  Tio  Eusebio? 

BERNABE.  No,  we  saw  him  coming  up  from  the  river  when 
we  were  a  long  way  off,  so  we  turned  and  went  in  by  the  great 
corral.  Norbert  is  hiding  there  until  Tio  Eusebio  starts  back 
to  Encinar. 

RAIMUNDA.  There  he  goes  up  the  road  now. 

BERNABE.  Yes — under  the  great  cross. 

RAIMUNDA.  Tell  Norbert.  No — wait !  What  do  they  say 
in  the  village? 

BERNABE.  No  good,  senora.  The  law  is  going  to  have  its 
hands  full  before  it  gets  to  the  bottom  of  this. 

RAIMUNDA.  Does  anybody  think  it  was  Norbert? 

BERNABE.  You  would  get  your  head  broke  if  you  said  it 
was.  When  he  came  back  yesterday,  half  the  town  was  out 
to  meet  him.  Everybody  was  sitting  by  the  roadside.  They 
took  him  up  on  their  shoulders  and  carried  him  home.  The 
women  all  cried,  and  the  men  hugged  him.  I  thought  his 
father  would  die  for  joy. 

RAIMUNDA.  He  never  did  it.     Poor  Norbert ! 

BERNABE.  They  say  the  men  are  coming  over  from  En- 
cinar to  kill  him;  everybody  here  carries  a  club  and  goes 
armed. 

RAIMUNDA.  Mother  of  God !  Did  anything  go  wrong  with 
the  master  while  he  was  in  the  village  this  morning  ?  What 
did  you  hear? 

BERNABE.  So  they  have  been  talking  to  you? 

RAIMUNDA.  No.     That  is — yes;  I  know. 

BERNABE.  Rubio  was  in  the  tavern  and  began  to  say  things, 
so  I  ran  for  the  master,  and  he  came  and  ordered  him  out. 
He  was  insolent  to  the  master.  He  was  drunk. 


ACT  ii  LA   MALQUERIDA  235 

RAIMUNDA.  Do  you  remember  what  he  said?  I  mean 
Rubio. 

BERN  ABE.  Oh!  His  tongue  ran  away  with  him.  He  was 
drunk.  Do  you  know  what  I  think?  If  I  were  you,  I 
wouldn't  go  back  to  the  village  for  two  or  three  days. 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  certainly  not.  If  I  had  my  way  we  would 
never  go  back.  I  am  filled  with  a  loathing  for  it  all  so  great 
that  I  want  to  rush  out,  and  down  that  long  road,  and  then 
on  and  up  and  over  those  mountains  to  the  other  side,  and 
after  that  I  don't  know  where  I  would  hide  myself.  I  feel 
as  if  some  one  were  running  after  me,  aftsr  me,  always  after 
me,  with  more  than  death  in  his  heart.  But  the  master. . . . 
Where  is  the  master? 

BERNABE.  Seeing  to  Rubio. 

RAIMUNDA.  Tell  Norbert  to  come  in.     I  can't  wait. 
BERNABE  goes  out. 
NORBERT  enters. 

NORBERT.  Aunt  Raimunda ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Norbert,  my  boy !     Give  me  a  hug. 

NORBERT.  I  am  so  glad  you  sent  for  me.  I've  been  treated 
like  a  dog.  It's  a  good  thing  that  my  mother  is  dead  and  in 
heaven.  I  am  glad  she  never  lived  to  see  this  day.  Next  to 
my  father,  there  is  nobody  in  the  world  I  think  so  much  of 
as  I  do  of  you. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  could  never  have  believed  that  you  did  it — 
not  though  everybody  said  so. 

NORBERT.  I  know  it;  you  were  the  first  to  take  my  part. 
Where  is  Acacia? 

RAIMUNDA.  In  her  room.  We  have  our  fill  of  trouble  in 
this  house. 

NORBERT.  Who  says  I  killed  Faustino?  .  If  I  hadn't 
proved,  as  I  did  prove,  where  I  was  all  that  day,  if  I'd  done 
as  I  meant  at  first  and  taken  my  gun  and  gone  off  to  hunt 


236  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

alone  by  myself,  and  then  couldn't  have  proved  where  I  was, 
because  nobody  had  seen  me,  I  would  have  spent  the  rest  of 
my  life  in  prison.  They  would  have  had  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  Are  you  crying? 

NORBEHT.  No,  I  am  not  crying;  but  I  cried  when  I  found 
myself  in  that  prison.  If  anybody  had  ever  told  me  that  I 
would  ever  go  to  prison,  I  would  never  have  believed  it;  I'd 
have  laughed  in  his  face.  But  that  isn't  the  worst.  Tio 
Eusebio  and  his  boys  have  sworn  to  kill  me.  They  will 
never  believe  that  I  am  innocent;  they  know  I  murdered 
Faustino.  They  are  as  sure  of  it  as  I  am  that  my  mother 
lies  under  the  ground ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Because  nobody  knows  who  did  it.  Nobody 
can  find  out  anything.  Don't  you  see?  They  will  never 
rest  at  that.  Do  you  suspect  any  one? 

NORBEKT.  I  more  than  suspect. 

RAIMUNDA.  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so?  You  were  in 
court.  You  had  the  opportunity. 

NORBERT.  If  I  hadn't  cleared  myself  I  would  have  told. 
But  what  was  the  use?  I  am  a  dead  man  now  if  I  speak. 
They  will  do  the  same  thing  to  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  Eh  ?  Will  they  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Was 
it  revenge?  But  who  did  it?  Tell  me  what  you  think. 
I  must  know,  because  Tio  Eusebio  and  Esteban  have  always 
had  the  same  friends;  they  have  always  stood  together,  for 
better  or  for  worse,  whichever  it  was.  Their  enemies  would 
naturally  be  the  same.  Now,  I  can  get  no  rest.  This  ven- 
geance was  intended  for  us  just  as  much  as  it  was  for  Tio 
Eusebio;  it  was  to  prevent  a  closer  union  of  our  families. 
Maybe  they  won't  stop  at  that,  either.  Some  day  they  will 
do  the  same  to  my  husband ! 

NORBERT.  I  wouldn't  worry  about  Uncle  Esteban. 

RAIMUNDA.  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?     Do  you  think  ? .  . .  . 


ACT  ii  LA  MALQUERIDA  237 

NORBEKT.  I  don't  think. 

RAIMUNDA.  Then  tell  me  what  you  know.  Somehow  I 
believe  you  are  not  the  only  one  who  knows  it.  You  think 
what  the  rest  think — it  must  be  the  same — what  everybody 
knows. 

NOEBERT.  Well,  they  didn't  get  it  out  of  me;  that  is  one 
thing  you  can  be  sure  of.  Besides,  how  could  they  know? 
It's  gossip,  that's  all — not  worth  that !  Talk  in  the  village  ! 
They  will  never  get  it  out  of  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  Norbert,  by  the  soul  of  your  sainted  mother 
in  heaven,  tell  me  what  it  is ! 

NORBERT.  For  God's  sake,  I  can't  talk !  I  was  afraid  to 
open  my  mouth  in  court.  Now,  if  I  say  a  word,  I  am  a  dead 
man.  A  dead  man  ! 

RAIMUNDA.  But  who  would  kill  you? 

NORBERT.  Who  killed  Faustino? 

RAIMUNDA.  But  who  did  kill  Faustino?  Some  one  was 
paid  to  do  it,  is  that  it  ?  Rubio  said  something  in  the  wine- 
shop this  morning. 

NORBERT.  Who  told  you? 

RAIMUNDA.  Esteban  went  in  and  dragged  him  out;  it 
was  the  only  way  he  could  stop  him. 

NORBERT.  He  didn't  want  to  be  compromised. 

RAIMUNDA.  What  is  that?  He  didn't  want  to  be  com- 
promised ?  Was  Rubio  saying  that  he .... 

NORBERT.  That  he  was  the  real  master  of  this  house. 

RAIMUNDA.  The  master  of  this  house?  Because  it  was 
Rubio. . . . 

NORBERT.  Rubio. 

RAIMUNDA.  Who  killed  Faustino? 

NORBERT.  Si,  senora. 

RAIMUNDA.  Rubio!    I  knew  it  all  the  time.     But  does 


238  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  u 

anybody  else  know?  That  is  the  question.  Do  they  kn6w 
it  in  the  village? 

NORBERT.  He  gives  himself  away;  he  has  money — bills, 
bank-notes — wherever  he  goes.  He  turned  on  them  this 
morning  while  they  were  singing  that  song.  That  was  why 
they  had  to  call  Uncle  Esteban,  and  he  kicked  him  out  of 
the  wine-shop. 

RAIMUNDA.  That  song?  Oh,  yes!  That  song — I  re- 
member. It  goes.  . . .  How  does  it  go? 

NORBERT. 

"Who  loves  the  maid  that  dwells  by  the  Mill 

Shall  love  in  evil  hour; 

Because  she  loves  with  the  love  that  she  loves, 
Call  her  the  Passion  Flower." 

RAIMUNDA.  \Ve  are  the  ones  who  dwell  by  the  Mill;  that 
is  what  they  call  us.  It  is  here — our  house.  And  the  maid 
that  dwells  by  the  Mill  must  be  Acacia,  my  daughter.  This 
song  that  everybody  sings.  .  .  .  They  call  her  the  Passion 
Flower  ?  That  is  it,  isn't  it  ?  But  who  loves  her  in  any  evil 
way  ?  How  could  anybody  love  her  ?  You  loved  her,  Faus- 
tino  loved  her;  but  who  else  ever  loved  her?  Why  do  they 
call  her  the  Passion  Flower  ?  Look  me  in  the  eye !  Why  did 
you  give  her  up  if  you  really  loved  her  ?  Why  ?  I  want  you 
to  tell  me;  you  have  got  to  tell  me.  You  cannot  tell  me 
anything  worse  than  wrhat  I  already  know. 

NORBERT.  Do  you  want  them  to  kill  me?  To  rum  all  of 
us  ?  I  have  never  said  one  word — not  even  when  they  had 
me  in  prison  would  I  say  one  word !  I  don't  know  how  it 
got  out— Rubio  told,  or  my  father.  He  is  the  only  one  who 
ever  had  it  from  me.  He  wanted  to  put  the  law  on  them, 
but  I  said  no.  They  would  have  killed  him;  they  would  have 
killed  me ! 


ACTH  LA  MALQUERIDA  239 

RAIMUNDA.  Stop!  Don't  you  talk  !  I  see  it  now.  I  see 
it  all.  The  Passion  Flower !  La  Malqiierida  I  Come  here 
to  me !  Tell  me  everything.  Before  they  kill  you,  by  God, 
they  will  have  to  kill  me !  It  cannot  go  on  like  this.  Some- 
body must  pay  for  it.  Tio  Eusebio  and  his  boys  will  never 
rest  till  they  have  justice.  If  they  can't  get  it  in  any  other 
way,  they  will  take  it  out  of  you — revenge !  You  can't 
escape.  Faustino  was  murdered  so  as  to  prevent  him  from 
marrying  Acacia.  You  left  her  for  the  same  reason — for 
fear  that  they  would  kill  you.  Was  that  it  ?  Tell  me  the 
truth ! 

NORBERT.  They  told  me  to  leave  her  because  she  was 
promised  to  Faustino;  she  had  been  for  a  long  time.  They 
said  they  had  an  understanding  with  Tio  Eusebio,  and  if  I 
didn't  make  the  best  of  it,  then  I  could  take  the  worst  of 
it.  But  if  I  ever  opened  my  mouth.  . . . 

RAIMUNDA.  They  would  kill  you?  Was  that  it?  But 
you .... 

NORBERT.  I  believed  it — I  was  afraid — I  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  Then  I  began  to  run  after  another  girl,  who  was 
nothing  to  me,  so  as  to  break  off  with  Acacia.  Afterward, 
when  I  found  out  that  not  a  word  of  it  was  true,  that  niether 
Tio  Eusebio  nor  Faustino  had  ever  spoken  to  Uncle  Este- 
ban.  .  .  .  Then,  when  they  killed  Faustino  I  knew  why 
they  killed  him.  It  was  because  he  dared  lay  eyes  on  Acacia. 
There  was  nothing  they  could  tell  him.  They  couldn't  scare 
him  off.  Tio  Eusebio  wasn't  a  man  to  stand  by  and  see 
his  son  refused.  They  co.uldn't  refuse,  so  they  agreed  to  it, 
and  went  through  with  it  until  the  end  came,  and  they 
killed  him.  They  killed  him  because  I  was  here  to  take  the 
blame.  Who  else  could  have  done  it  ?  Of  course  it  was  I ! 
I  loved  Acacia — I  was  jealous.  That  was  the  plot.  Praise 
God,  some  saint  surely  watched  over  me  that  day !  But 


240  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

now  the  crime  has  come  home  to  him.     It  lies  like  lead  on 
his  conscience.     He  betrays  himself.  .  .  . 

RAIMUNDA.  Is  it  possible  that  such  a  thing  could  be?  I 
must  have  been  blind  not  to  see.  What  veil  hung  over  my 
eyes  ?  Why,  it  is  all  as  clear  as  day !  How  could  I  have 
been  so  blind? 

NORBERT.  What  are  you  doing  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  I  don't  know — I  don't  know  where  I  am — 
something  so  awful,  so  vast  is  passing  through  my  mind 
that  it  seems  as  if  it  were  nothing.  I  can  only  remember  one 
thing  of  all  that  you  have  told  me — that  song — La  Mal- 
querida!  The  Passion  Flower!  I  want  you  to  teach  me 
the  music.  We  can  sing  it  together,  and  dance — dance  and 
drop  dead  ! — Acacia !  Acacia !  Acacia  ! 

NORBERT.  No,  don't  you  call  her !     Don't  take  it  like  this ! 
It  wasn't  her  fault ! 
ACACIA  enters. 

ACACIA.  Did  you  call,  mother  ? — Norbert ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Come  here !     Look  at  me — straight  in  the  eye. 

ACACIA.  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  mother? 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  it  was  not  your  fault. 

ACACIA.  But  what  have  they  been  doing  ?  What  did  you 
tell  her? 

RAIMUNDA.  What  every  one  else  knows  already — La  Mal- 
querida!  The  Passion  Flower!  Your  honor  is  a  scorn  and 
a  byword.  It  is  bandied  about  in  men's  mouths ! 

ACACIA.  My  honor  ?    Never !    No  one  can  say  that. 

RAIMUNDA.  Don't  you  deny  it !  Tell  me  what  you  know. 
Why  was  it  that  you  never  called  him  father  ?  Why  was  it  ? 

ACACIA.  Because  a  child  has  only  one  father,  you  know 
that.  This  man  could  never  be  my  father.  I  hated,  I  de- 
spised him  from  the  day  that  he  entered  this  house,  and 
brought  hell  along  after  him ! 


ACT  ii  LA  MALQUERIDA  241 

RAIMUNDA.  Well,  you  are  going  to  call  him  now,  and  you 
are  going  to  call  him  what  I  tell  you;  you  are  going  to  call 
him  father.  Do  you  hear  ?  Your  father !  I  tell  you  to 
call  your  father. 

ACACIA.  Do  you  want  me  to  go  to  the  cemetery  and  call 
him?  If  that  isn't  what  you  want,  I  have  no  father.  This 
man — this  man  is  your  husband;  you  love  him,  but  all  that 
he  is  to  me  is  this  man  !  This  man  !  That  is  all  he  can  ever 
be !  Leave  me  alone  if  you  know  what  is  good  for  you — 
you  think  you  are  so  smart.  Let  the  law  take  its  course.  I 
don't  care.  If  he  has  sinned,  he  can  pay  for  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  Do  you  mean  for  Faustino's  murder?  Yes — 
go  on !  Go  on !  What  else  ?  Out  with  it ! 

ACACIA.  No,  mother,  no !  For  if  I  had  consented,  Faus- 
tino  would  never  have  been  murdered !  Do  you  think  I 
don't  know  how  to  guard  my  honor? 

RAIMUNDA.  Then  what  have  you  been  so  silent  about? 
Why  didn't  you  come  to  me? 

ACACIA.  Would  you  have  taken  my  word  against  this 
man,  when  you  were  mad  for  him?  And  you  must  have 
been  mad  not  to  see !  He  would  eat  me  up  with  his  eyes 
while  you  sat  there;  he  followed  me  around  the  house  like  a 
cat.  What  more  do  you  want?  I  hated  him  so,  I  had  such 
a  horror  of  him  that  I  prayed  to  God  that  he  would  make 
himself  even  more  of  a  beast  than  he  was,  so  that  it  would 
open  your  eyes,  if  anything  could  have  opened  your  eyes, 
and  let  you  see  what  manner  of  man  he  was  who  had  robbed 
me  of  your  love,  for  you  have  loved  him,  you  have  loved 
him  so  much — more  than  you  ever  loved  my  father ! 

RAIMUNDA.  No !    That  isn't  true ! 

ACACIA.  I  wanted  you  to  hate  him  as  I  hate  him,  as  my 
father  in  heaven  hates  him !  I  have  heard  his  voice  from 
the  skies. 


242  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

RAIMUNDA.  Silence!    For   shame!     Come    here    to    your 
mother.     You  are  all  that  I  have  left  in  the  world.     And 
thank  God  that  I  can  still  protect  you ! 
BERNABE  enters. 

BERNABE.  Senora !     Senora ! 

RAIMUNDA.  What  brings  you  running  in  such  a  hurry? 
No  good,  we  may  be  sure. 

BERNABE.  Don't  let  Norbert  leave  the  house!  Don't  let 
him  out  of  your  sight ! 

RAIMUNDA.  How? 

BERNABE.  Tio  Eusebio's  boys  are  waiting  outside  with 
their  men  to  kill  him. 

NORBERT.  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  You  wouldn't  believe  it. 
They  are  here — they  want  to  kill  me !  And  they  will  kill 
me.  Yes,  they  will ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Not  unless  they  kill  us  all  first !  Somebody 
has  sent  for  them. 

BERNABE.  Yes,  Rubio.  I  saw  him  running  along  the 
river  bank  where  Tio  Eusebio's  boys  were  at  work. 

NORBERT.  Didn't  I  tell  you?  They  want  to  kill  me,  so 
as  to  save  themselves.  Then  nothing  will  ever  come  out. 
Tio  Eusebio's  boys  will  think  they  have  the  man  who  mur- 
dered their  brother.  They  will  kill  me,  Aunt  Raimunda! 
Yes,  they  will !  They  are  too  many  for  one;  I  can't  defend 
myself.  I  haven't  even  a  knife.  I  don't  dare  to  carry  a 
gun — I  might  kill  some  one.  I'd  rather  die  than  be  locked 
up  in  that  cell  again.  Save  me,  Aunt  Raimunda!  I  don't 
want  to  die.  It  wasn't  my  fault!  They  hunt  me  like  a 
wolf. 

RAIMUNDA.  Don't  be  afraid.  If  they  kill  you,  it  will  be 
over  my  dead  body.  Go  in  there  with  Bernabe  and  take 
that  gun,  do  you  hear?  They  won't  dare  to  come  in.  If 
they  do,  shoot  to  kill !  When  I  call,  shoot — no  matter  who 


ACT  ii  LA  MALQUERIDA  243 

it  may  be !  Do  you  understand  ?  No  matter  who  it  may 
be!  Don't  shut  the  door.  [To  ACACIA]  You  stand  here  by 
me.  Esteban !  Esteban !  Esteban ! 

ACACIA.  What  are  you  going  to  do? 
ESTEBAN  enters. 

ESTEBAN.  Did  you  call? 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Norbert  is  here 
in  our  house.  Tio  Eusebio's  boys  are  waiting  outside.  You 
sent  for  them  to  kill  him — because  you  are  not  man  enough 
to  do  it  yourself.  > 

ESTEBAN.  [Making  a  movement  to  draw  a  weapon]  Rai- 
munda ! 

ACACIA.  Mother! 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  don't  you  do  it !  Call  Rubio  and  let  him 
make  an  end  of  us  all !  He  will  have  to  make  an  end  of  us 
all  to  cover  your  guilt.  Murderer !  Assassin  ! 

ESTEBAN.  You  are  crazy ! 

RAIMUNDA.  I  was  crazy !  I  was  crazy  the  day  that  you 
first  entered  this  house — my  house — like  a  thief,  to  rob  me 
of  all  I  held  dear! 

ESTEBAN.  What  are  you  talking  about? 

RAIMUNDA.  I  am  not  talking;  other  people  are  talking. 
Soon  the  law  will  speak.  If  you  don't  want  that,  do  as  I 
tell  you,  or  I  will  cry  out — I  will  rouse  the  house.  You 
brought  them  here — take  them  away  again,  you  cowards 
that  lie  in  wait  for  innocent  men,  to  stab  them  in  the  back ! 
Norbert  leaves  this  house,  but  he  leaves  with  me.  If  they 
kill  him,  they  kill  me.  I  am  here  to  protect  him,  and  I  will 
protect  my  daughter — I,  alone,  against  you,  against  all  the 
assassins  you  can  hire!  Go!  Here  come  my  people.... 
Don't  you  touch  me !  Hide  yourself  in  the  uttermost  recesses 
of  those  mountains,  in  caves  where  the  wild  beasts  dwell. 
Now  I  know !  You  have  nothing  to  hope  for  from  me. 


244  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  n 

Oh,  I  was  alone  with  my  child ! — and  you  came.  You  knew 
that  she  was  my  child;  there  she  stands — La  Malqueridal 
The  Passion  Flower !  Well !  I  am  still  here  to  guard  her 
from  you,  to  tell  you  that  her  father  still  lives  in  heaven — 
and  to  shoot  you  through  the  heart  if  you  make  one  step  to 
lay  your  hand  on  her ! 

Curtain 


THE    THIRD    ACT 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  the  Second  Act,  RAIMUNDA  stands 
at  the  door,  peering  anxiously  out  over  the  countryside. 
After  a  moment  JULIANA  enters. 

JULIANA.  Raimunda! 

RAIMUNDA.  What  do  you  want?    Is  he  worse? 

JULIANA.  No,  don't  be  nervous. 

RAIMUNDA.  How  is  he  ?    Why  did  you  leave  him  ? 

JULIANA.  He's  asleep.  Acacia  is  with  him;  she  can  hear 
if  he  calls.  You  are  the  one  I  am  worried  about.  Thank 
God;  he's  not  dead.  Do  you  expect  to  go  all  day  without 
eating  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Let  me  alone;  don't  bother  me. 

JULIANA.  What  are  you  doing  out  here  ?  Come  on  in  and 
sit  with  us. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  was  looking  for  Bernabe. 

JULIANA.  He  can't  be  back  so  soon  if  he  brings  the  men  to 
take  Norbert  away.  If  the  constables  come  with  him. . . . 

RAIMUNDA.  Constables?  Constables  in  this  house?  Ah, 
Juliana,  surely  a  curse  has  fallen  upon  us  all ! 

JULIANA.  Come  on  in,  and  don't  be  looking  out  of  the  door 
all  the  time.  It's  not  Bernabe  that  you  are  looking  for;  it's 
the  other  one — it's  your  husband.  When  all  is  said  and 
done,  he  is  your  husband. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  cannot  be  changed 
in  one  day.  Although  I  know  what  I  know,  and  that  it 
must  always  be  so,  although  if  I  saw  him  coming  it  would 
be  to  curse  him,  although  I  must  loathe  him  for  the  rest  of 
my  life,  yet  here  I  stand  looking  out  of  the  door  and  scan 

245 


246  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  m 

ning  every  rock  and  cranny  upon  those  mountains  only  for 
a  sight  of  him !  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  were  waiting  for  him 
as  I  used  to  do,  to  see  him  come  happy  and  smiling,  and  then 
turn  and  walk  into  the  house  with  him  arm  in  arm  like  two 
lovers,  and  sit  down  here  at  the  table  to  eat,  and  go  over 
everything  that  we  had  done  during  the  day.  Sometimes 
we  would  laugh,  sometimes  we  would  argue,  but  always  it 
was  so  dear,  as  if  we  had  been  fonder  of  each  other  than 
any  one  else  who  had  ever  lived  in  the  world.  Now  it  is  all 
over;  nothing  remains.  The  peace  of  God  has  fled  forever 
from  this  house ! 

JULIANA.  You  cannot  believe  what  you  see  with  your 
eyes.  If  you  hadn't  told  me  yourself,  if  I  didn't  know  how 
you  felt,  how  you  were,  I  would  never  have  believed  it. 
Faustino  is  dead,  God  help  him;  we  can  leave  it.  There 
might  be  more  of  the  sort,  too,  for  all  I  care;  but  this  devil 
that  has  gotten  into  him  with  Acacia,  it  doesn't  seem  possible, 
I  can't  believe  it — although  I  must  believe  it.  There  is  no 
other  explanation  of  the  mystery. 

RAIMUNDA.  Did  you  never  notice  anything  ? 

JULIANA.  Nothing.  When  he  first  came  to  the  house,  it 
was  to  make  love  to  you,  and  I  needn't  tell  you  how  I  felt. 
I  was  fond  of  your  first  husband;  there  never  was  a  better 
nor  juster  man  in  the  world,  so  I  looked  on  him  with  dis- 
favor. God  have  mercy  on  me,  but  if  I  had  seen  anything, 
what  reason  would  I  have  had  for  keeping  quiet  ?  Of  course, 
when  you  come  to  think,  he  gave  her  presents — and  there 
were  a  good  many  of  them,  too — but  we  never  thought  any- 
thing of  that.  She  was  so  haughty  with  him.  They  never 
had  one  good  talk  together  from  the  day  you  were  married. 
She  was  only  a  runt  then  anyway.  She  insulted  him  out  of 
pure  spite.  Nobody  could  do  anything  with  her.  If  you 
struck  her,  it  made  no  difference.  I'll  say  this  while  I  am 


ACT  in  LA  MALQUERIDA  247 

about  it:  if  she  had  been  nice  to  him  when  she  was  little,  he 
might  have  looked  on  her  as  his  own  daughter.  Then  we 
would  never  have  been  where  we*are  now. 

RAIMUNDA.  Are  you  trying  to  excuse  him? 

JULIANA.  Excuse  him?  There  can  be  no  excuse  for  such 
a  thing.  It  was  enough  that  she  was  your  daughter.  What 
I  say  is  that  the  girl  was  like  a  stranger  to  him  from  the  be- 
ginning, although  she  was  your  own  child.  If  she  had 
tpeated  him  like  a  father,  as  she  ought — it  would  have  been 
different;  he  isn't  a  bad  man.  A  bad  man  is  bad  through 
and  through.  When  you  were  first  married,  I've  seen  him 
sit  by  himself  and  cry  at  the  way  the  girl  ran  from  him,  as 
if  he  had  had  the  plague. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  are  right.  The  only  trouble  we  ever  had 
was  with  the  child. 

JULIANA.  After  she  was  grown  there  wasn't  a  girl  in  the 
village  that  was  her  equal  for  looks.  Nobody  knows  that 
better  than  you  do.  But  she  shrank  from  him  as  if  he  had 
been  the  devil.  There  she  was  all  the  time — right  before  his 
eyes  !  No  wonder  if  he  had  an  evil  thought;  none  of  us  are 
above  them. 

RAIMUNDA.  I  don't  say  he  might  not  have  had  an  evil 
thought,  although  he  ought  never  to  have  had  such  a  thought. 
But  you  put  an  evil  thought  out  of  your  mind  unless  you  are 
evil.  He  must  have  had  more  than  an  evil  thought  to  do 
what  he  did,  to  murder  a  man  in  cold  blood  to  prevent  my 
daughter  from  marrying  and  going  away — away  from  him; 
his  mind  must  have  been  evil,  like  the  criminal's,  waiting  to 
break  out,  with  all  the  evil  of  the  world  in  his  heart.  I  am 
more  anxious  than  anybody  to  believe  that  it  is  not  so  bad, 
but  the  more  I  think,  the  more  I  see  that  there  can  be  no 
excuse  for  it.  When  I  remember  what  has  been  hanging 
over  my  daughter  all  these  years,  that  any  moment — be- 


248  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  m 

cause  a  man  who  will  do  murder  will  do  anything.  If  he 
had  ever  laid  hands  on  her  I  would  have  killed  them  both, 
as  sure  as  my  name  is  Raimunda — him,  because  he  had  been 
guilty  of  such  a  crime,  and  her  because  she  did  not  let  him 
kill  her  before  she  would  consent  to  it. 
BERN  ABE  enters. 

JULIANA.  Here  comes  Bernabe. 

RAIMUNDA.  Are  you  alone? 

BERNABE.  Yes,  they  are  deciding  in  the  village  what  is 
best  to  be  done.  I  was  afraid  to  stay  any  longer. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  were  right.  This  is  not  life.  What  do 
they  say  now  ? 

BERNABE.  Do  you  want  to  go  mad?  Forget  it.  Pay  no 
attention  to  what  they  say. 

RAIMUNDA.  Are  they  coming  to  take  Norbert  away? 

BERNABE.  His  father  will  tend  to  that.  The  doctor  won't 
let  them  put  him  in  the  cart  for  fear  it  will  make  him  worse. 
He'll  have  to  be  carried  on  a  stretcher.  The  judge  and  the 
prosecutor  are  coming  to  take  his  story,  so  they  don't  want 
a  relapse.  He  was  unconscious  yesterday  and  couldn't  tes- 
tify. Everybody  has  his  own  idea;  no  two  agree.  Not  a 
soul  went  to  the  fields  to-day.  The  men  stand  around  the 
streets  in  groups;  the  women  talk  in  the  houses  and  run  to 
and  fro.  Nobody  stops  to  eat.  Not  a  meal  has  been  served 
to-day,  dinner  or  supper  either,  on  the  hour. 

RAIMUNDA.  Didn't  you  tell  them  that  Norbert's  wounds 
aren't  serious? 

BERNABE.  What  difference  does  that  make?  Now  they 
can't  do  anything.  Yesterday,  when  they  thought  Tio 
Eusebio's  boys  had  fallen  on  him  with  the  master,  and  he 
was  going  to  die,  the  thing  was  simple;  but  to-day  they  hear 
he  is  better.  How  do  they  know  but  that  he  will  soon  be 


ACT  m  LA  MALQUERIDA 

well  again?  Even  Norbert's  best  friends  say  that  it's  a 
gi'eat  pity  that  the  wound  wasn't  serious.  If  he  was  wounded 
at  all,  it  might  better  have  been  serious.  Then  Tio  Euse- 
bio's  boys  could  have  been  made  to  pay  for  it,  and  they 
would  have  had  their  revenge,  but  now,  if  he  gets  well,  the 
law  will  get  into  it,  and  then  nobody  will  be  satisfied. 

JULIANA.  They  are  so  fond  of  Norbert,  are  they,  that  they 
wish  he  was  dead  ?  The  idiots  ! 

BERNABE.  That  is  the  way  they  are.  I  told  them  they 
could  thank  you  for  it,  because  ypu  were  the  one  who  called 
the  master,  and  the  master  threw  himself  between  them 
and  knocked  up  their  guns,  so  they  couldn't  kill  him. 

RAIMUNDA.  Did  you  tell  them  that? 

BERNARD.  Every  mother's  son  that  asked  me.  I  said  the 
first  because  it  was  true,  and  I  said  the  rest — because  you 
don't  know  what  they  are  saying  in  the  village,  nor  how 
they  feel  about  what  is  going  on  in  this  house. 

RAIMUNDA.  No !  I  don't  want  to  hear !  Where  is  the 
master?  Have  you  seen  him?  Do  you  know  where  he  is? 

BERNABE.  He  and  Rubio  were  up  at  Los  Berrocales  this 
morning  with  the  goatherds  from  Encinar.  They  sport  the 
night  in  a  hut  on  the  uplands.  I  don't  like  this  going  away. 
It's  not  right,  if  I  know  what  is  good  for  him.  It  looks  as  if 
he  was  afraid.  This  is  no  time  to  have  people  think  what 
isn't  so.  Norbert's  father  talks  too  much.  This  morning  he 
tried  to  persuade  Tio  Eusebio  that  his  sons  had  had  no  cause 
to  shoot  his  boy. 

RAIMUNDA.  Is  Tio  Eusebio  in  the  village? 

BERNABE.  He  came  with  his  boys.  They  arrested  them 
this  morning,  tied  them  together  by  the  elbows,  and  brought 
them  over  from  Encinar.  Their  father  followed  on  foot  and 
brought  the  little  fellow  with  him,  holding  his  hand  all  the 
way.  They  cried  with  every  step  that  they  took.  There 


250  LA   MAtQUERIDA  ACT  m 

wasn't  a  man  in  the  village  but  cried,  too,  when  he  saw  them, 
even  the  strongest,  no  matter  if  he  had  never  cried  before. 

RAIMUNDA.  And  his  mother  is  alone  at  home,  and  here  I 
am !    What  do  you  men  know  ? 
ACACIA  enters. 

ACACIA.  Mother 

RAIMUNDA.  Well?    What  is  it? 

ACACIA.  Norbert  wants  you.  He  is  awake  now.  He 
wants  some  water.  He  is  thirsty;  I  was  afraid  to  give  him 
any  for  fear  it  wasn't  right. 

RAIMUNDA.  The  doctor  says  he  can  have  all  the  orange- 
juice  he  can  drink.  Here's  the  jar.  Does  he  suffer  much  ? 

ACACIA.  No,  not  now. 

RAIMUNDA.  [To  BERNABE]  Did  you  get  the  things  for  the 
doctor  ? 

BERNABE.  Yes,  they're  in  the  saddle-bags.  I'll  bring 
them  in.  [Goes  out. 

ACACIA.  He  is  calling,  mother.     Do  you  hear? 

RAIMUNDA.  Coming,  Norbert,  my  boy.  [Goes  out. 

ACACIA.  Has  that  man  come  back  ? 

JULIANA.  No.  He  took  his  gun  and  rushed  out  like  one 
mad  as  soon  as  it  was  over.  Rubio  ran  after  him. 

ACACIA.  Have  they  caught  him? 

JULIANA.  You'll  hear  soon  enough  when  they  do.  They'll 
have  to  bring  charges  against  him  first. 

ACACIA.  But  doesn't  everybody  know  ?  They  heard  what 
my  mother  said. 

JULIANA.  No,  nobody  heard  except  me  and  Bernabe,  and 
he  won't  tell  what  isn't  good  for  him;  he  is  honest  and  loyal 
to  this  house.  They  heard  your  mother  shout,  that  was  all. 
They  thought  it  was  because  Norbert  was  here,  and  Tio 
Eusebio's  boys  were  waiting  outside  to  kill  him.  Nobody 


•ACTHI  LA  MALQUERIDA  251 

will  say  a  word  when  the  judge  comes  unless  your  mother 
tells  us  to  open  our  mouths. 

ACACIA.  Do  you  mean  that  my  mother  isn't  going  to  let 
you  tell  the  truth  ?  Won't  she  tell  what  she  knows  ? 

JULIANA.  Is  that  what  you  want?  So  you  want  to  dis- 
grace this  house,  do  you,  and  yourself?  Then  every  man 
will  think  what  he  likes;  some  will  believe  that  you  are  in- 
nocent, and  some  will  never  believe  it.  A  woman's  honor 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  bandied  about  in  men's  mouths,  not  when 
it  is  none  of  their  business. 

ACACIA.  My  honor?  I  can  take  care  of  my  honor.  Let 
the  others  do  the  same.  Now  I  shan't  marry.  I  am  glad 
it  happened,  because  I  shall  never  marry.  I  only  agreed  to 
it  to  get  rid  of  him. 

JULIANA.  Acacia,  I  don't  want  to  hear  you — not  another 
word.  Surely  the  devil  must  be  in  you ! 

ACACIA.  Yes,  he  is,  and  he  has  always  been,  since  I  first 
learned  to  hate  that  man ! 

JULIANA.  Yes,  and  who  is  to  say  that  wasn't  where  the 
trouble  began  ?  You  had  no  cause  to  hate  him.  Mind  you, 
nobody  blamed  your  mother  more  than  I  did  when  she 
married  again ;  but  all  the  same,  I  saw  what  a  devil  you  were 
to  this  man  when  you  were  a  little  child,  and  how  much  it 
meant  to  him — which  you  were  too  young  to  know. 

ACACIA.  How  much  did  it  mean  to  me  to  see  my  mother 
always  hanging  around  his  neck?  Do  you  suppose  I  liked 
it,  sitting  here  and  seeing  her  love  him  ?  I  was  always  in  the 
way. 

JULIANA.  You  have  no  right  to  talk  like  that.  You  were 
always  first  with  your  mother,  and  you  might  have  been  with 
him. 

ACACIA.  Might  have  been  ?  Never !  Because  I  was,  and 
I  am. 


'252  LA  MALQUER1DA  ACT  m 

JULIANA.  But  not  like  you  mean,  though  you  seem  proud 
of  it;  in  the  way  you  should  have  been.  He  never  would 
have  loved  you  as  he  did  if  you  had  loved  him  as  a  daughter. 

ACACIA.  How  could  I  love  him  ?  Didn't  he  turn  me  even 
against  my  own  mother? 

JULIANA.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Turn  you  against  your 
own  mother? 

ACACIA.  Yes.  Do  you  suppose  I  can  love  her  now  as  I 
ought,  as  I  should  have  loved  her  if  that  man  had  never 
entered  this  house?  I  remember  once  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  I  spent  all  one  night  with  a  knife  under  my  pillow, 
and  I  lay  awake  all  night.  The  only  thought  that  I  had 
in  my  mind  that  night  was  to  kill  him. 

JULIANA.  Jesus,  my  child  !  What  is  that  ?  Suppose  you 
had  ?  Suppose  you  had  gotten  up,  and  had  dared,  and  had 
killed  him? 

ACACIA.  I  don't  know  who  I  might  have  killed  next. 

JULIANA.  Holy  Virgin!  Jesus!  Not  another  word.  Don't 
you  talk!  You  are  beyond  the  pale  of  God's  mercy.  Do 
you  know  what  I  think?  It  was  all  your  fault. 

ACACIA.  All  my  fault? 

JULIANA.  Yes,  yours!  It  was  your  fault!  And  I'll  go 
further:  if  you  hated  him  as  much  as  you  say  you  do,  then 
he  would  have  been  the  only  one  you  would  have  hated — 
yes,  the  only  one !  Jesus !  It's  a  good  thing  that  your 
mother  doesn't  know ! 

ACACIA.  Know  what? 

JULIANA.  That  he  wasn't  the  one  you  were  jealous  of.  It 
was  her  !  You  were  in  love  with  him  and  you  didn't  know  it. 

ACACIA.  In  love  with  him? 

JULIANA.  Yes,  hate  turned  to  love.  Nobody  can  hate  like 
that.  A  hate  like  that  always  grows  out  of  a  great  love. 


ACT  m  LA  MALQUERIDA  253 

ACACIA.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  was  in  love  with  that 
man  ?  Do  you  know  what  you  are  telling  me  ? 

JULIANA.  I  am  not  telling  you  anything. 

ACACIA.  No.  What  you  will  do  now  is  run  and  tell  my 
mother. 

JULIANA.  Is  that  what  you  are  afraid  of?  I  thought  so. 
Now  you  are  the  one  who  is  telling.  You  needn't  worry, 
though.  I'll  not  tell.  She  has  enough  on  her  mind,  poor 
soul.  God  help  us ! 

BERNABE  enters. 

BERN  ABE.  Here  comes  the  master! 

JULIANA.  Did  you  see  him? 

BERNABE.  Yes.  You  wouldn't  know  him.  He  looks  as 
if  he  had  stepped  from  the  grave. 

ACACIA.  Let  me  out ! 

JULIANA.  Yes",  let  us  all  out — and  shut  your  mouth,  do 

you  hear  ?     What  is  done  is  done.     Your  mother  must  never 

know.  [The  women  go  out. 

ESTEBAN  and  RUBIO  enter,  their  guns  over  their  shoulders. 

BERNABE.  Can — can  I  do  anything? 

ESTEBAN.  Nothing,  Bernabe. 

BERNABE.  I'll  tell  the  mistress. 

ESTEBAN.  No,  don't  tell  her;  they'll  find  us. 

RUBIO.  How  about  his  wounds,  eh? 

BERNABE.  Better.  The  doctor  sent  for  these  things.  I'll 
take  them  in — unless  you  need  me.  [Goes  out. 

ESTEBAN.  Here  I  am.    What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? 

RUBIO.  What  do  I  want  you  to  do?  This  is  your  house; 
you  belong  here.  A  man's  house  is  his  castle.  Running 
away,  being  afraid  to  face  it,  is  to  confess.  It  will  ruin  u« 
both. 

ESTEBAN.  Here  I  am;  you  have  had  your  way.  Now 
this  woman  will  come  and  accuse  me  and  raise  the  house. 


2.34  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  m 

The  judge  will  be  here,  and  he  will  bring  Tio  Eusebio.  What 
then? 

RUBIO.  Why  didn't  you  let  Tio  Eusebio 's  boys  handle  it 
themselves  ?  They  would  have  finished  it.  Now  he  is  only 
wounded.  He  will  squeal,  and  so  will  his  father;  so  will  all 
the  women.  They  are  the  ones  I  am  afraid  of.  They  will 
talk.  Nobody  can  prove  who  shot  Faustino.  You  were 
with  his  father;  nobody  saw  me.  I  have  a  good  pair  of  legs. 
I  was  with  some  friends  two  leagues  away  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, and  I  set  the  clock  ahead.  When  I  left  the  house  I 
took  good  care  to  have  them  notice  it. 

ESTEBAN.  Yes,  we  would  have  been  safe  if  that  had  been 
all.  But  you  talked;  you  gave  yourself  away. 

RUBIO.  You  ought  to  have  killed  me.  That  was  the  first 
time  in  my  life  that  I  ever  was  afraid.  I  never  expected  they 
would  let  Norbert  go.  I  told  you  that  we  ought  to  go  into 
court  and  have  Acacia  testify  that  Norbert  had  sworn  he 
was  going  to  kill  Faustino,  but  you  wouldn't  listen.  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  couldn't  have  made  her  do  it  ? 
We  could  have  got  others,  too,  to  say  the  same.  Then  it 
would  have  been  easy;  they  would  never  have  let  him  go. 
I  know  I  made  a  fool  of  myself,  but  when  I  saw  that  Norbert 
was  free,  that  the  law — yes,  and  Tio  Eusebio — would  never 
stop  there,  that  they  would  look  somewhere  else,  then  I 
was  afraid  for  the  first  time.  I  wanted  to  forget.  So  I 
began  to  drink,  which  I  never  do,  and  I  talked.  You  ought 
to  have  killed  me  then;  you  had  ground  for  it.  They  were 
talking  already  in  the  village;  that  was  what  scared  me. 
When  I  heard  that  song — it  put  the  blame  here.  Norbert 
and  his  father  suspect.  After  what  happened  before,  they 
have  their  eyes  open.  That  is  the  talk  that  has  got  to  be 
stopped,  no  matter  what  comes  of  it.  That  is  the  danger — 
the  crime  will  be  known  by  the  cause.  Nothing  else  counts. 


ACT  in  LA  MALQUERIDA  255 

So  long  as  nobody  knows  why  he  was  killed,  nobody  will  ever 
find  out  who  killed  him  either. 

ESTEBAN.  But  why?  Why  was  he  killed ?  What  was  the 
use  of  killing  anybody? 

RUBIO.  I  don't  know.  Don't  ask  me.  Weren't  you 
talking  all  the  time?  "If  another  man  gets  her,  look  out! 
Something  happens."  Then  you  told  me  she  was  going  to 
be  married.  "I  can't  scare  this  one  off;  it's  all  over,  he  will 
take  her  away.  I  can't  think.  ..."  Didn't  you  come  to  me 
in  the  morning  early  again  and  again,  before  it  was  light,  and 
wake  me  up  and  say:  "Get  up,  Rubio;  I  haven't  closed  my 
eyes  all  night.  I  must  get  out.  To  the  fields !  I  must 
walk !"  And  then  we'd  take  our  guns  and  go  out  and  walk 
for  hours,  side  by  side,  without  speaking  a  word.  At  last, 
when  the  fit  had  passed,  and  we'd  put  a  few  shots  in  the  air 
so  that  nobody  could  say  that  we  did  no  hunting  when  we 
went  out  to  hunt,  I'd  tell  you  that  we  scared  away  the  game; 
but  you  said  we  frightened  evil  thoughts:  and  down  we'd  sit 
on  some  hummock  and  then  you  would  burst  out  laughing 
like  one  mad,  as  if  some  weight  had  been  lifted  from  your 
soul,  and  you'd  catch  me  around  the  neck  and  talk,  and  talk, 
and  talk — you  didn't  know  how  you  talked,  nor  what  you 
said,  nor  why,  nor  whether  it  had  any  sense  at  all;  but  it 
always  came  to  the  same  thing:  "I  am  mad,  crazy,  a  wild 
man  !  I  cannot  live  like  this.  I  want  to  die.  I  don't  know 
what  devil  has  gotten  into  me.  This  is  torment,  hell!" 
And  then  you'd  shuffle  the  words  again,  over  and  over,  but 
it  was  always  the  same,  you  were  dying — death !  And  you 
talked  death  so  long  that  one  day  death  heard — and  he 
came.  And  you  know  it. 

ESTEBAN.  Stop !    Why  do  you  have  to  talk  ? 

RUBIO.  Take  care,  master !  Don't  you  touch  me !  I 
know  what  was  in  your  mind  when  we  were  coming  down 


256  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  m 

the  mountain.  Make  no  mistake.  You  lagged  behind. 
Another  minute  and  your  gun  would  have  been  at  your 
shoulder.  But  don't  you  do  it,  master,  don't  you  try ! 
We'll  stick  together.  I  know  how  you  feel;  you're  sick. 
You  never  want  to  see  me  again.  If  that  would  help,  I'd 
get  out.  What  did  I  care,  anyway?  It  was  nothing  to 
me.  Whatever  I  got  you  gave  me  afterward.  It  was  your 
idea.  I  never  asked.  I  don't  need  money.  I  don't  drink, 
I  don't  smoke.  All  I  want  is  to  rove  over  the  mountains,  to 
do  what  I  like,  to  be  free.  I  want  to  be  my  own  master. 
You  trusted  me,  and  I  was  proud  of  it.  I  know  how  you 
feel.  We  are  like  brothers.  I'll  take  the  blame.  You 
needn't  worry.  They  can  grind  me  to  powder  but  I'll  never 
say  a  word.  I'll  tell  them  I  did  it — it  was  I — because — it's 
none  of  their  business — just  because.  I  don't  care  what 
they  give  me:  they  can  make  it  ten  years,  fifteen.  What's 
the  difference?  Then  you  fix  it;  you  have  influence.  Only 
don't  let  them  make  it  too  much.  Get  busy;  cut  it  down. 
Others  have  done  the  same.  In  four  or  five  years  every- 
thing will  have  blown  over.  Only  I  don't  want  you  to  for- 
get. When  I  come  out  we  will  be  brothers,  the  same  as 
before.  We  can  work  together;  we  can  do  what  we  please. 
Only  I  mean  to  be  my  own  master,  to  have  power,  to  feel 
power  in  my  hands !  Nobody  can  stand  alone.  We'll  be 
brothers.  Hush !  Some  one  is  coming — the  mistress  ! 

RAIMUNDA  enters,  carrying  a  water-jar.  She  sees  ESTE- 
BAN  and  RTTBIO  and  stops  short,  dazed.  After  hesi- 
tating for  a  moment  she  proceeds  to  fill  the  jar  from  a 
pitcher. 

RUBIO.  Senora! 

RAIMUNDA.  Get  out  of  my  house !  Don't  you  come  near 
me!  What  are  you  doing  here?  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again. 


ACTni  LA  MALQUERIDA  257 

RUBIO.  Oh!  You  are  going  to  see  me  again — and  hear 
me. 

RAIMUNDA.  What  do  you  mean  ?    This  is  my  house. 

RUBIO.  Just  a  word.  Soon  we  will  all  be  in  court.  We 
had  better  fix  it  beforehand.  Because  a  few  fools  open  their 
mouths  is  no  reason  why  a  good  man  should  go  to  prison. 

RAIMUNDA.  More  than  one  will  go.  You  don't  expect  to 
get  out  of  it? 

RUBIO.  I  don't  know.  Only  one  will  go,  but  that  one  will 
be  I. 

RAIMUNDA.  It  will  ? 

RUBIO.  But  when  I  shut  my  mouth  I  don't  want  other 
people  to  talk.  Take  it  from  me:  what  you  think  is  not  so. 
Norbert  and  his  father  are  back  of  these  lies;  they  are  the 
ones  who  do  all  the  lying.  They  made  up  that  song,  too. 
It's  a  lie,  and  they  know  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  Is  that  so?  You  have  agreed  then  on  your 
story?  Well,  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it.  Gossip  and 
songs  are  nothing  to  me.  I  believe  nothing  but  the  truth, 
the  truth  that  I  know — and  I  know  it  so  well  that  I  have 
known  it  all  along.  I  guessed  it  from  the  beginning.  I 
might  have  thought — but  no,  I  never  thought  anything  of 
you.  He,  he  might  have  confessed;  it  would  have  been 
only  fair.  He  might  have  known  that  I  would  hold  my 
tongue,  not  for  him,  but  for  this  house — which  was  my 
father's  house — for  my  daughter,  for  my  own  sake.  But 
why  should  I  keep  still  when  everybody  knows  it,  and  the 
very  stones  shout?  They  sing  it  from  the  housetops. 

RUBIO.  So  long  as  you  keep  still,  the  rest  can  sing  all  they 
want  to. 

RAIMUNDA.  Keep  still?  To  save  you?  I  could  scream 
at  the  very  sight  of  you  !  I  could  raise  the  village ! 

RUBIO.  Don't  be  a  fool !    What's  the  use? 


258  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  m 

r 

RAIMUNDA.  Of  course  you  weren't  a  fool  when  you  mur- 
dered a  man.  And  you  nearly  murdered  another — in  this 
house — or  had  him  murdered. 

RUBIO.  I  wouldn't  have  been  a  fool  if  I  had. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  are  a  coward  !    You  are  a  murderer ! 

RUBIO.  Your  wife  is  speaking  to  you,  master. 

ESTEBAN.  Rubio! 
v     RUBIO.  You  see  he  can  hear. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  hang  your  head  before  this  man. 
What  a  humiliation !  You  are  his  slave  for  the  rest  of 
your  life.  Could  any  fate  be  more  horrible?  Now  this 
house  has  a  master.  Thank  God,  he  cannot  be  less  jealous 
of  its  honor  than  you ! 

ESTEBAN.  Raimunda! 

RAIMUNDA.  When  I  talk,  you  interrupt.  You  are  not 
afraid  of  me. 

ESTEBAN.  If  I  had  been  man  enough,  I  would  have  put  a 
bullet  through  my  head,  and  have  been  done  with  it. 

RUBIO.  Oh,  master! 

ESTEBAN.  No !  Stop  there !  That's  all  I'll  take  from 
you.  Get  out !  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  Do  you  want 
me  to  beg  you  on  my  knees  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Oh! 

RUBIO.  No,  master.  I  am  going.  [To  RAIMUNDA]  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  me,  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  murder, 
but  you  might  have  lost  a  child.  Now,  you  have  another. 
The  blood  made  him  faint;  a  bad  turn,  that  was  all.  But 
he's  better.  I  am  a  good  doctor.  Some  time  you  can  thank 
me  for  it.  Don't  forget.  I'll  show  you  how.  [Goes  out. 

ESTEBAN.  Don't  cry  any  more.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
cry.  I  am  not  worth  all  these  tears.  I  ought  never  to  have 
come  back;  I  ought  to  have  starved  amid  the  brambles  and 
thickets — they  should  have  hunted  me  down  like  a  wolf. 


Acxra  LA   MALQUERIDA  259 

I  would  not  have  raised  my  hand.  Don't  reproach  me! 
Over  and  over  again  I  have  said  to  myself  more  than  you 
can  say.  I  have  called  myself  murderer,  assassin,  times 
without  number.  Let  me  go.  This  is  no  longer  my  home. 
Turn  me  out !  I  am  only  waiting  for  them  to  take  me.  I 
don't  go  out  on  the  road  and  give  myself  up,  because  I  am 
too  weak;  my  heart  sinks;  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  tether. 
If  you  don't  want  me,  tell  me  to  go,  and  I  will  creep  onto  the 
highway  and  throw  myself  down  in  the  fields,  like  carrion 
which  you  cast  from  your  door. 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  give  yourself  up !  Bring  shame  and  ruin 
on  this  house,  drag  my  daughter's  honor  in  the  dust  and 
mire  of  the  village  !  I  should  have  been  the  law  to  you ;  you 
ought  to  have  thought  of  me.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  believe 
in  these  tears  because  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you  cry  ? 
Better  you  had  cried  your  eyes  out  the  day  that  wicked 
thought  first  entered  your  mind,  rather  than  have  turned 
them  where  you  had  no  right.  Now  you  cry — but  what  am 
I  to  do?  Look  at  me.  Nobody  knows  what  I  have  been 
through.  It  could  not  be  worse.  I  want  to  forget,  but  I 
must  think — think  how  I  can  hide  the  shame  which  has 
fallen  on  this  house,  keep  it  out  of  men's  sight,  prevent  a 
man  from  being  dragged  from  this  house  to  prison — a  man 
I  brought  into  it  to  be  a  father  to  my  child !  This  was  my 
father's  house;  here  my  brothers  lived  with  the  fear  of  God 
in  their  hearts,  and  from  it  they  went  to  serve  their  King, 
or  to  marry,  or  to  till  other  fields  by  their  labor.  When  they 
re-entered  these  doors  it  was  with  the  same  honor  with  which 
they  went  forth.  Don't  cry;  don't  hang  your  head.  Hold 
it  high,  as  I  do.  In  a  few  minutes  the  officers  will  be  here 
to  trap  us  all.  Though  the  house  burn,  and  they  are  in  it, 
they  shall  not  smell  the  smoke.  Dry  your  eyes;  you  have 
wept  blood.  Take  a  sip  of  water — I  wish  it  -was  poison. 


260  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  in 

Don't  drink  so  fast;  you  are  overheated.  The  thorns  have 
torn  your  skin.  You  deserved  knives.  Let  me  wash  you 
off;  it  makes  my  blood  creep  to  look  at  you. 

ESTEBAN.  Raimunda  !  Wife !  Pity  me !  You  don't 
know.  Don't  talk  to  me.  No,  I  am  the  one  who  must 
talk — I  must  confess  as  T  shall  confess  at  the  hour  of  my 
doom !  You  don't  know  how  I  have  struggled.  I  have 
wrestled  all  these  years  as  with  another  man  who  was 
stronger  than  I,  night  and  day,  who  was  dragging  me  where 
I  did  not  want  to  go. 

RAIMUNDA.  But  when — when  did  that  evil  thought  first 
enter  your  mind?  When  was  that  unhappy  hour? 

ESTEBAN.  I  don't  know.  It  came  upon  me  like  a  blight, 
all  at  once;  it  was  there.  All  of  us  think  some  evil  in  our 
lives,  but  the  thought  passes  away,  it  does  no  harm;  it  is 
gone.  When  I  was  a  boy,  one  day  my  father  beat  me. 
Quick  as  a  flash  it  came  to  me:  "I  wish  he  was  dead  !"  But 
no  sooner  thought,  than  I  was  ashamed — I  was  ashamed  to 
think  that  I  had  ever  had  such  a  thought.  My  heart  stood 
still  within  me  for  fear  that  God  had  heard,  that  he  would 
take  him  away.  From  that  day  I  loved  him  more,  and  when 
he  died,  years  afterward,  I  grieved  as  much  for  that  thought 
as  I  did  for  his  death,  although  I  was  a  grown  man.  And 
this  might  have  been  the  same;  but  this  did  not  go  away. 
It  became  more  fixed  the  more  I  struggled  to  shake  it  off. 
You  can't  say  that  I  did  not  love  you.  I  loved  you  more 
every  day!  You  can't  sa"  hat  I  cast  my  eyes  on  other 
women — and  I  had  no  thought  of  her.  But  wh'en  I  felt  her 
by  me  my  blood  took  fire.  When  we  sat  down  to  eat,  I  was 
afraid  to  look  up.  Wherever  I  turned  she  was  there,  before 
me — always !  At  night,  when  we  were  in  bed,  and  I  was 
lying  close  by  you  in  the  midnight  silence  of  the  house,  all  I 
could  feel  was  her.  I  could  hear  her  breathe  as  if  her  lips 


ACT  in  LA  MALQUERIDA  261 

had  been  at  my  ear.  I  wept  for  spite,  for  bitterness !  I 
prayed  to  God,  I  scourged  myself.  I  could  have  killed  my- 
self— and  her !  Words  cannot  tell  the  horror  I  went  through. 
The  few  times  that  we  were  alone,  I  ran  from  her  like  a 
wild  man.  If  I  had  stayed  I  don't  know  what  might  have 
happened:  I  might  have  kissed  her,  I  might  have  dug  my 
knife  into  her ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  you  were  mad — and  you  did  not  know  it. 
It  could  only  have  ended  in  death.  Why  didn't  we  find  some 
man  for  her?  She  could  have  married.  You  ought  not  to 
have  kept  her  from  Norbert. 

ESTEBAN.  It  was  not  her  marrying,  it  was  her  going  away. 
I  could  not  live  without  the  feel  of  her;  I  craved  her  day  and 
night.  All  her  hate,  her  spite,  her  turning  away — which  she 
always  did — cut  me  to  the  heart;  then,  I  came  to  depend 
upon  it.  I  could  not  live  without  it;  it  was  part  of  my  life. 
That  is  what  it  was — I  didn't  realize  it  myself,  because  it 
always  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  could  not  be — such  things  could 
not  really  be.  I  was  afraid  to  face  it.  But  now,  I  have  con- 
fessed it  to  you.  It  is  true !  It  is  true !  I  can  never  for- 
give myself,  not  even  though  you  might  forgive  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  The  evil  cannot  be  cured  by  forgiveness;  if 
I  do  not  forgive  you,  it  will  not  take  the  evil  away.  When  I 
first  heard  of  it,  it  seemed  to  me  that  no  punishment  could  be 
too  severe.  Now,  I  don't  know.  To  do  what  you  did,  you 
must  have  been  all  evil.  But  you  were  always  kind  and  good, 
in  season  and  out,  to  my  daughter,  when  she  was  a  child, 
when  she  was  grown — and  to  u^  I  have  seen  it  with  my 
own  eyes.  You  were  good  to  all  the  servants  from  the  day 
that  you  entered  this  house,  to  the  men,  to  everybody  who 
came  near.  You  have  been  faithful  and  loyal,  and  worked 
hard  for  the  honor  of  this  house.  A  man  cannot  be  good  so 
long  and  become  all  bad  in  one  day.  Yet  these  things  are; 


262  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  in 

I  know  it.  It  chills  my  heart.  When  my  mother  was  alive 
— God  rest  her  soul ! — we  always  laughed  because  she  used 
to  say  that  many  a  deed  had  been  foretold  in  this  world 
that  afterward  took  place  exactly  as  it  had  been  foretold. 
We  never  believed  it,  but  now  I  know  it  is  true.  The  dead 
do  not  leave  us  when  they  die,  though  we  lay  them  in  the 
ground.  They  walk  by  the  side  of  those  that  they  loved 
in  this  life,  of  those  that  they  hated  with  a  hate  that  was 
stronger  than  death.  They  are  with  us,  day  and  night.  We 
do  not  see  them,  but  they  whisper  in  our  ears.  They  put 
thoughts  into  our  minds  which  are  evil  and  wicked  and 
strange,  which  we  never  can  believe  could  be  part  of  our- 
selves. 

ESTEBAN.  Do  you  mean  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Vengeance !  This  is  vengeance  from  the  other 
world.  My  daughter's  father  will  not  forgive  me  in  heaven ; 
he  will  never  accept  a  second  father  for  his  child.  There  are 
some  things  which  we  cannot  explain  in  this  life.  A  good 
man  like  you  cannot,  all  of  a  sudden,  cease  to  be  good;  for 
you  were  good. . . . 

ESTEBAN.  I  was — I  was  always.  When  you  say  it,  you 
don't  know  what  happiness,  what  boundless  joy  it  is  to  me ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Hush !  Not  so  loud  !  I  hear  some  one  in  the 
other  part  of  the  house.  It  is  Norbert's  father  and  his  friends. 
They  are  going  to  take  him  away.  If  it  had  been  the  judge 
he  would  have  come  to  this  door.  Stay  here;  I'll  find  out. 
Go  in  and  wash;  change  your  shirt.  Don't  let  any  one  see 
you  like  this.  You  look.  . . . 

ESTEBAN.  Like  a  murderer,  eh  ?    Say  it. 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  no,  Esteban  !  We  mustn't  dwell  on  these 
things.  We  must  stop  this  talk;  that  is  first.  Then  we  can 
think.  Acacia  can  go  to  the  nuns  for  a  few  days  at  Encinar. 
They  are  fond  of  her;  they  always  ask  how  she  is.  Then 


ACT  in  LA  MALQUERIDA  263 

I  can  write  to  my  sister-in-law,  Eugenia;  she  likes  her. 
She  can  go  to  Andrada  and  live  with  her.  She  migM  marry, 
who  knows  ?  There  are  fine  boys  there — the  town  is  rich — 
and  she  is  the  best  match  in  our  village.  Then  she  could 
come  back  and  have  her  children,  and  we  would  be  grand- 
father and  grandmother,  and  grow  old  with  them  around  us, 
and  be  happy  once  more  in  this  house.  If  only. . . . 

ESTEBAN.  What? 

RAIMUNDA.  If  only. . . . 

ESTEBAN.  The  dead  man. 

RAIMUN-DA.  Yes.     He  will  always  be  here,  between  us. 

ESTEBAN.  Always.    The  rest  we  can  forget. 

[Goes  into  the  room. 
ACACIA  enters. 

RAIMUNDA.  Acacia !    Were  you  there  ? 

ACACIA.  Yes.  Why  not?  Can't  you  see?  Norbert's 
father  is  here  with  the  men. 

RAEMUNDA.  What  are  they  doing? 

ACACIA.  They  seem  more  reasonable;  they  were  surprised 
to  find  him  better.  Now  they  are  waiting  for  the  judge. 
He  is  down  at  Sotillo  examining  the  men.  He  will  come 
here  as  soon  as  he  is  done. 

RAIMUNDA.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  them. 

ACACIA.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  first,  mother. 

RAIMUNDA.  You?  Something  to  say?  What  is  the 
matter  with  you?  I  am  frightened.  You  never  say  any- 
thing. 

ACACIA.  I  heard  what  you  mean  to  do  with  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  You  were  listening  at  the  keyhole,  were  you? 

ACACIA.  Yes,  because  it  was  my  duty  to  hear.  I  had  to 
know  what  you  were  doing  with  this  man.  It  seems  that 
I  am  the  one  who  is  in  the  way  in  this  house.  I  have  done 


264  LA   MALQUERIDA  ACT  m 

nothing  wrong,  so  I  have  to  take  the  blame,  while  you  stay 
here  and  enjoy  yourself  with  your  husband.  You  forgive 
him  and  turn  me  out,  so  that  you  can  be  alone  together ! 

RAIMUNDA.  What  are  you  talking  about?  Who  is  turn- 
ing you  out?  Who  ever  put  that  idea  into  your  head? 

ACACIA.  I  heard  what  you  said.  You  want  to  send  me 
to  the  convent  at  Encinar  and  shut  me  up,  I  suppose,  for  the 
rest  of  my  life. 

RAIMUNDA.  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  Didn't  you 
tell  me  yourself  that  you  wanted  to  go  there  and  stay  for  a 
few  days  with  the  nuns  ?  Didn't  I  refuse  to  let  you  go  for 
fear  that  you  would  never  come  back,  if  you  once  saw  the 
inside  of  the  cloister  ?  How  often  have  you  begged  me  to  let 
you  go  to  your  Aunt  Eugenia?  Now,  when  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  us  all,  for  the  good  of  the  family,  which  is 
your  family — I  tell  you  that  we  must  hold  our  heads  high — 
now  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  Do  you  expect  me  to 
give  up  my  husband — the  man  it  was  your  duty  to  love  as 
a  father  ? 

ACACIA.  You  are  as  bad  as  Juliana.  I  suppose  it  was  all 
my  fault? 

RAIMUNDA.  I  don't  say  that.  But  he  never  looked  on 
you  as  a  daughter  because  you  were  never  a  daughter  to 
him. 

ACACIA.  I  suppose  I  flaunted  myself  in  his  face?  I  sup- 
pose I  made  him  kill  Faustino? 

RAIMUNDA.  Not  so  loud  !    Somebody  might  hear ! 

ACACIA.  Well,  this  time  you  won't  find  it  so  easy  to  have 
your  way.  You  want  to  save  this  man  and  hush  it  up,  but 
I  am  going  to  tell  what  I  know  to  the  judge,  to  everybody. 
I  have  only  my  honor  to  think  of,  not  that  of  a  man  who 
hasn't  any,  who  never  had  any — who  is  a  criminal ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Silence !    Not  so  loud !     It  freezes  my  heart 


ACTIII  LA  MALQUERIDA  265 

to  hear  you.  You  hate  him — and  I  had  almost  forgiven 
him ! 

ACACIA.  Yes,  I  do  hate  him.  I  always  did  hate  him,  and 
he  knows  it.  If  he  doesn't  want  me  to  speak,  to  denounce 
him,  let  him  kill  me.  I  can  die — that  is  what  I  can  do — 
die.  Let  him  kill  me !  Then,  perhaps,  once  for  all,  you 
might  learn  to  hate  him. 

RAIMUNDA.  Hush,  I  say ! — Here  he  comes.  [ESTEBAN 
enters]  Esteban ! 

ESTEBAN.  She  is  right.  She  is  not  the  one  who  ought  to 
go.  Only  I  don't  want  her  to  give  me  up.  I  will  do  it  my- 
self. I  am  strong  now.  I  will  go  out  on  the  road  to  meet 
them.  Let  me  go,  Raimunda.  You  have  your  child. 
You  forgive  me,  but  she  never  will.  She  hated  me  from  the 
beginning. 

RAIMUNDA.  No,  Esteban,  don't  you  go!  Esteban,  my 
life! 

ESTEBAN.  No,  let  me  go,  or  I  will  call  Norbert's  father. 
I  will  tell  him.  .  . . 

RAIMUNDA.  [To  ACACIA]  Now  you  see  what  you  have 
done.  It  was  your  fault.  Esteban !  Esteban  ! 

ACACIA.  Mother,  don't  let  him  go ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Ah ! 

ESTEBAN.  No,  she  wants  to  betray  me.  Why  did  you 
hate  me  like  this?  You  never  once  called  me  father.  You 
don't  know  how  I  loved  you ! 

ACACIA.  Mother,  mother 

ESTEBAN.  La  Malquerida  I  The  Passion  Flower !  I  hang 
my  head.  But  once — once  how  I  could  have  loved  you ! 

RAIMUNDA.  For  once,  call  him  father. 

ESTEBAN.  She  will  never  forgive  me. 

RAIMUNDA.  But  she  must !    Throw  your  arms  about  his 


266  LA  MALQUERIDA  ACT  ni 

neck.     Call   him   father.     Even    the   dead    will    forgive   us 
then,  and  be  happy  in  our  happiness. 

ESTEBAN.  Daughter! 

ACACIA.  Esteban !. . . .     My  God  !    Esteban ! 

ESTEBAN.  Ah! 

RAIMUNDA.  But  you  don't  call  him  father.  Has  she 
fainted  ?  Ah  !  Lip  to  lip,  and  you  clutch  her  in  your  arms  ! 
Let  go,  let  go !  Now  I  see  why  you  won't  call  him  father. 
Now  I  see  that  it  was  your  fault — and  I  curse  you ! 

ACACIA.  Yes,  it  was.  Kill  me  !  It  is  true,  it  is  true  !  He 
is  the  only  man  I  ever  loved. 

ESTEBAN.  Ah ! 

RAIMUNDA.  What  do  you  say?  What  is  that?  I  will 
kill  you — yes,  and  be  damned  with  it ! 

ESTEBAN.  Stand  back ! 

ACACIA.  Save  me ! 

ESTEBAN.  Stand  back,  I  say! 

RAIMUNDA.  Ah !  Now  I  see !  It  is  plain  to  me  now. 
And  it  is  just  as  well !  What  is  one  murder  to  me  ?  We  can 
all  die.  Here !  Come,  everybody  !  The  murderer  !  I  have 
the  murderer!  Take  this  wicked  woman,  for  she  is  not  my 
child! 

ACACIA.  Run  !    Get  away ! 

ESTEBAN.  Yes,  together — to  hell !  For  I  am  damned  for 
love  of  you.  Come !  They  can  hunt  us  like  wild  beasts 
among  the  rocks.  To  love  you  and  hold  you,  I  will  be  as  the 
wild  beasts,  that  know  neither  father  nor  mother ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Help  !  Help  !  Come  quick  !  The  murderer  ! 
The  murderer ! 

RUBIO,  BERNABE  and  JULIANA  appear  simultaneously 
at  different  doors,  followed  by  others  from  the  village. 

ESTEBAN.  Out  of  my  way  !     Take  care  who  crosses  me  ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Stay  where  you  are  ! — The  murderer ! 


ACT  in  LA   MALQUERIDA  267 

ESTEBAN.  Out  of  my  way,  I  tell  you ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Over  my  dead  body  ! 

ESTEBAN.  Yes —         [Raising  his  gun  he  shoots  RAIMUNDA. 

RAIMUNDA.  Ah! 

JULIANA.  God  in  heaven  ! — Raimunda ! 

RUBIO.  What  have  you  done? 

A  MAN.  Kill  him ! 

ESTEBAN.  Yes,  kill  me !    I  don't  defend  myself. 

BERNABE.  No !    Put  the  law  on  him  ! 

JULIANA.  It  was  this  man,  this  wretched  man  ! — Raimunda  ! 
— He  has  killed  her  ! — Raimunda  !  Don't  you  hear  ? 

RAIMUNDA.  Yes,  Juliana.  Don't  let  me  die  without  con- 
fession. I  am  dying  now.  This  blood.  . .  .  No  matter — 
Acacia !  Acacia ! 

JULIANA.  Acacia! — Where  is  she? 

ACACIA.  Mother,  mother ! 

RAIMUNDA.  Ah !  Then  you  are  not  crying  for  him  ?  It 
consoles  me. 

ACACIA.  No,  mother !    You  are  my  mother ! 

JULIANA.  She  is  dying  !    Quick — Raimunda ! 

ACACIA.  Mother,  mother ! 

RAIMUNDA.  This  man  cannot  harm  you  now.  You  are 
saved.  Blessed  be  the  blood  that  saves,  the  blood  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ ! 

Curtain 


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